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Copyright^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



•Sp Cfcarles ft. ©Icott 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated. 
THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

Boston and New York 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/lureofcamera01olco 




THE STEPPING STONES^ 



THE LURE OF THE 
CAMERA 

BY 

CHARLES S. OLCOTT 

Author of " George Eliot : Scenes and People of 
her Novels " and " The Country 
of Sir Walter Scott " ■ 



ILLUSTRATED PROM PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY THE AUTHOR 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

1914 



>0£ 



COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Published September IQ14 



7~k C 



SEP 21 1914 



'CI.A3S0464 



TO MY BOYS 

GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD 

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 



PREFACE 

THE difference between a ramble and a jour- 
ney is about the same as that between pleas- 
ure and business. When you go anywhere for a 
serious purpose, you make a journey ; but if you 
go for pleasure (and don't take the pleasure too 
seriously, as many do) you only ramble. 

The sketches in this volume, which takes its 
name from the first chapter, are based upon 
" rambles," which were for the most part merely 
incidental excursions, made possible by various 
" journeys " undertaken for more serious pur- 
poses. It has been the practice of the author for 
many years to carry a camera on his travels, so 
that, if chance should take him within easy dis- 
tance of some place of literary, historic, or scenic 
interest, he might not miss the opportunity to 
pursue his favorite avocation. 

If the reader is asked to make long flights, as 
from Scotland to Italy, then back, across the At- 
lantic, to New England, and thence overland to 
Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that 
ramblers take no account of distance or direction. 
In this case they must take no account of time, 
for these rambles are but the chance happen- 
ings that have occurred at intervals in a period 
of more than a dozen years. 
> vii 



PREFACE 

People who are in a hurry, and those who in 
traveling seek to " do " the largest number of 
places in the shortest number of days, are advised 
not to travel with an amateur photographer. Not 
only must he have leisure to find and study his 
subjects, but he is likely to wander away from 
the well-worn paths and use up his time in mak- 
ing inquiries, in a fashion quite exasperating to 
the tourist absorbed in his itinerary. 

The rambles here chronicled could not possi- 
bly be organized into an itinerary or moulded 
into a guidebook. The author simply invites 
those who have inclinations similar to his own, 
to wander with him, away from the customary 
paths of travel, and into the homes of certain dis- 
tinguished authors or the scenes of their writ- 
ings, and to visit with him various places of 
historic interest or natural beauty, without a 
thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the 
toil and dust of travel. This is the real essence 
of rambling. 

The chapter on " The Country of Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward " was published originally in The 
Outlook in 1909, and " A Day in Wordsworth's 
Country," in the same magazine in 1910. 



CONTENTS 

I. The Lure of the Camera .... 1 
II. Literary Rambles in Great Britain . 15 

English Courtesy — The George Eliot Country — 
Experiences in Rural England. Overcoming 
Obstacles — A London " Bobby " — Carlyle's 
Birthplace — The Country of Scott and Burns 

III. A Day in Wordsworth's Country . 49 

IV. From Hawthornden to Roslin Glen . 73 
V. The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward 93 

I. MRS. WARD AND HER WORK . . . 95 
II. THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE . . .110 

III. OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY. . . 128 

VI. A Tour of the Italian Lakes . . 147 
VII. Literary Landmarks of New England 175 

I. CONCORD 179 

II. SALEM 196 

in. PORTSMOUTH " . 207 

IV. THE ISLES OF SHOALS .... 222 

VIII. A Day With John Burroughs . . 233 

IX. Glimpses of the Yellowstone . .251 

X. The Grand Canon of Arizona . . 271 

Index 297 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Stepping Stones . . . . . . Frontispiece 

On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and 
below Fox How, the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, 
grandfather of Mrs. Humphry Ward. One of the scenes in 
"Robert Elsmere" was suggested by these stones. 

/ 

A Path in Bretton Woods 10 

White Mountains, N.H. 

Profile Lake 12 v ' 

Showing the Old Man of the Mountains. 
In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The 
profile suggested to Hawthorne the tale of "The Great 
Stone Face." 

The Grand Saloon, Arburt Hall .... 22 
Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel 
Manor, in George Eliot's "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story." 

A School in Nuneaton 30 

Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth 
year. 

The Bromley-Davenport Arms 34 

In Ellastone, England, the original of the "Donnithorne 
Arms" of "Adam Bede." 

The Birthplace of Robert Burns . . . .40 
In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January 
25, 1759. The left of the building is the cottage of two 
rooms where the family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is 
the "byre," or cow-house. 

The Burns Monument, Ayrshire 44 

The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, 
and almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edin- 
burgh. 

xi 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Brig o' Doon, Ayrshire 48 

The bridge over which Tarn o' Shanter rode to escape 
the witches. 

Grasmere Lake 60 

"For rest of body perfect was the spot." 

Dove Cottage, Grasmere 64 

Wordsworth's home for eight years. The view is from 
the garden in the rear of the cottage. 

Wordsworth's Well 68 

In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed 
"bright gowan and marsh marigold" brought from the 
border of the lake. 

Hawthornden 76 ' 

The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the 
Esk, Scotland. 

The Sycamore 80 

The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drum- 
mond met Ben Jonson. 

Ruins of Roslin Castle 86 

In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk. 

Mrs. Humphry Ward and Miss Dorothy Ward . 96 

At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, 
where Mrs. Ward wrote "Lady Rose's Daughter." 

"Under Loughrigg" 100 

The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at 
Fox How. 

The Passmore Edwards Settlement House . . 104 
Tavistock Place, London. 

The Lime Walk 110 

In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in 
"Robert Elsmere." 

xii 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Cottage of "Mary Backhouse" 114 

At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, 
on either end, give the small cottage an attenuated appear- 
ance. » 

The Rectory of Peper Harow 118 

In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, 
the house of "Robert Elsmere." 

The Rothay and Nab Scar 130 

From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England. 

Lake Como 138 

From "the path that led to the woods overhanging the 
Villa Carlotta." 

Stocks 144 

The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England. 

Lake Maggiore, Italy 150 

According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian \ 
Lakes. 

Isola Bella, Lake Maggiore 154 

The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo 
in the Seventeenth Century. 

The Atrium of the Villa Maria 170 

At Cadenabbia, Lake Como. 

"I call this my J. M. W. Turner" . . . .174 
View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria. 

The Old Manse 180 

In Concord, where Emerson wrote "Nature" and 
Hawthorne lived for three years. 

Walden Woods 184 

The cairn marks the site of Thoreau's hut and " Thoreau's 
Cove " is seen in the distance. 

xiii 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

House of Ralph Waldo Emerson .... 190 
Concord, Massachusetts. 

The Wayside ! 194 

House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest 
years of his life. 

The Mall Street House 200 

Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote "The 
Scarlet Letter" is in the third floor, front, on the left. 

The House of the Seven Gables .... 204 
The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, 
and owned by the Ingersoll family. 

The Bailey House 208 

The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas 
Bailey Aldrich's grandfather, known as "Captain Nutter" 
in "The Story of a Bad Boy." 

"Aunt Abigail's" Room 212 

In the "Nutter" House. 

An Old Wharf 216 

On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often 
played in his boyhood. 

Celia Thaxter's Cottage 224 

On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous 
"Island Garden." 

Appledore 232 

Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the "Isles of 
Shoals." 

John Burroughs at Woodchuck Lodge . . . 238 
The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, 
New York, in the Catskill Mountains. When not at work 
he enjoys " the peace of the hills." 

John Burroughs at Work 244 

The "study" is a barn, where, the naturalist sits facing 

XIV 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

the open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the 
birds and small animals come to "talk with him." The 
"desk" is an old hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to 
keep his feet warm. 

Hymen Terrace 254 

At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National 
Park. 

Pulpit Terrace 258 

A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at 
Mammoth Hot Springs. 

Old Faithful 264 

The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellow- 
stone National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred 
and fifty feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight 
variations. 

The Grotto Geyser 266 

A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its 
fantastic crater. 

The Canon of the Yellowstone River . . . 268 
The view from Inspiration Point. 

The Trail, Grand Canon ........ 278 

The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels' Trail, 
as it appears when the ground is covered with snow. 

The Grand Canon of Arizona 290 

The view from Bright 1 Angels'. The plateau over which 
the trail leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by 
a deep shadow. The great formation in the left foreground 
is known as the " Battleship." 



I 

THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 



THE LURE OF THE 
CAMERA 



TWO pictures, each about the size of a large 
postage-stamp, are among my treasured pos- 
sessions. In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, 
in a white dress, is vigorously kicking a foot- 
ball. The second depicts a human wheelbarrow, 
the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, 
whose two plump arms serve admirably the pur- 
pose of a wheel, his stout legs making an excel- 
lent pair of handles, while the motive power is 
supplied by an equally robust lad of eight, who 
grasps his younger brother firmly by the ankles. 
These two photographs, taken with a camera 
so small that in operation it was completely con- 
cealed between the palms of my hands, revealed 
to me for the first time the fascination of ama- 
teur photography. The discovery meant that 
whatever interested me, even if no more than 
the antics of my children, might be instantly re- 
corded. I had no idea of artistic composition, 
nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, 
and printing papers. Still less did I foresee that 
the tiny little black box contained the germ of 

3 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and 
growing more powerful year by year, was to lead 
me into fields which I had never dreamed of ex- 
ploring, into habits of observation never before 
a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of 
countless places of historic and literary interest 
as well as natural beauty and grandeur, which 
would never have been mine but for the lure of 
the camera. 

The spell began to make itself felt almost im- 
mediately. I determined to buy a camera of my 
own, — for the two infinitesimal pictures were 
taken with a borrowed instrument, — and was 
soon the possessor of a much larger black box 
capable of making pictures three and a quarter 
inches square. The film which came with it was 
quickly " shot off," and then came the impulse to 
go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend 
a day at a pretty little inland lake, a few hours' 
ride from our home. I hastened to the druggist's 
to buy another film, and without waiting to in- 
sert it in the camera, off we started. Arrived on 
the scene, our first duty was to " load " the new 
machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow 
the directions did not seem to fit. But we got it 
in place finally and began to enjoy the pleasures 
of photography. 

Our first view was a general survey of the 
lake, which is nearly twelve miles long, with many 
bays and indentations in the shore-line, making 

4 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

a rather large subject for a picture only three 
and a quarter inches square. But such difficulties 
did not seem formidable. The directions clearly 
intimated that if we would only "press the but- 
ton " somebody would " do the rest," and we 
expected the intangible somebody to perform 
his part of the contract as faithfully as we were 
doing ours. Years afterward, chancing to pass 
by the British Museum, which stretches its huge 
bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of 
nearly four hundred feet, we saw a little girl 
taking its picture with a "Brownie" camera. 
" That reminds me of i Dignity and Impu- 
dence,' " said my wife, referring to Landseer's 
well-known painting which we had seen at the 
National Gallery that afternoon. This is the 
mistake which all amateurs make at first — that 
of expecting the little instrument to perform im- 
possible feats. 

But to resume my story. We spent a remark- 
ably pleasant day composing beautiful views. 
We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the 
steamers and the sail-boats and at everything 
else in sight except the huge ice-houses which 
disfigure what would otherwise be one of the 
prettiest lakes in America. We posed for each 
other in picturesque attitudes on the rocks and 
in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had 
a delightful outing and only regretted when, all 
too soon, the last film was exposed. But we felt 

5 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

unusually happy to think that we had a wonder- 
ful record of the day's proceedings to show to 
our family and friends. 

That night I developed the roll, laboriously 
cutting off one exposure at a time, and putting 
it through the developer according to directions. 
Number one was blank ! Something wrong with 
the shutter, I thought, and tried the next. Num- 
ber two was also blank ! ! What can this mean? 
Perhaps I have n't developed it long enough. 
So into the fluid went another one, and this one 
stayed a long time. To my dismay number three 
was as vacant as the others, and so were all the 
rest of the twelve. Early the next morning I was 
at the drug store demanding an explanation. 
The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had 
sold me was intended for another camera, but 
" It ought to have worked on yours," he said. 
Subsequent investigation proved that on my 
camera the film was to be inserted on the left, 
while on the other kind it went in on the right. 
This difference seemed insignificant until I dis- 
covered that in turning the roll to insert it on 
the opposite side from what was intended, I had 
brought the strip of black paper to the front of 
the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! 
Thus I learned the first principle of amateur 
photography : — Know exactly what you are 
doing and take no chances with your appara- 
tus. A young lady, to whom I once attempted 

6 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

to explain the use of the various " stops " on 
her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the 
remark, " Well, that 's the way it was set when I 
got it and I 'm not going to bother to change it. 
If the pictures are no good, I '11 send it back." 
It is such people who continually complain of 
" bad luck " with their films. 

It was two or three years after the complete 
failure of my first expedition before the camera 
again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it 
was faithfully recording various performances of 
the family, especially in the vacation season. It 
was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious 
American fleet had returned from Santiago and 
all the famous battleships and cruisers were tri- 
umphantly floating their ensigns in the breezes 
of New York Harbor. " Here is a rare opportu- 
nity. Come ! " said the camera. Taking passage 
on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the life- 
boats, outside the rail, where the view would be 
unobstructed. We passed in succession all the 
vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by 
the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Ore- 
gon, with the laurels of her long cruise around 
Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I 
photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, 
are some pictures worth while. I had been in the 
habit of doing my own developing — with indif- 
ferent success, it must be confessed. These ex- 
posures, made under ideal conditions, were too 
- 7 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a 
prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, 
for developing and printing. Every one was 
spoiled ! Not a good print could be found in the 
lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had 
left yellow spots and finger-marks on every nega- 
tive ! Subsequent investigation revealed the fact 
that a negro janitor had been entrusted with 
the work. Here, then, was maxim number two 
for the amateur — Do your own developing, 
and be sure to master the details of the opera- 
tion. The old adage, " If you want a thing well 
done, do it yourself," applies with peculiar force 
to photography. 

Another experience, which happened soon 
after, came near ending forever all further at- 
tempts in photography. This time I lost, not 
only the negatives, but the camera itself. Hav- 
ing accomplished very little, I resolved to try no 
more. But a year or two later a friend offered 
to sell me his 4x5 plate camera, with tripod, 
focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low 
price, and enough of the old fever remained to 
make me an easy — victim, shall I say? No! 
How can I ever thank him enough ? I put my 
head under the focusing-cloth and for the first 
time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful 
landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the 
ground glass. At that moment began my real 
experience in photography. The hand camera is 

8 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

only a toy. A child can use it as well as an ex- 
pert. It has its limitations like the stone walls of 
a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. 
All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of 
success. Artistic work is practically impossible. 
It is not until you begin to compose your pic- 
tures on the ground glass that art in photo- 
graphy becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing 
to see how many variations of the same scene 
may be obtained, how many different effects of 
light and shade, and how much depends upon 
the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more 
independent of the weather, for by a proper use 
of the " stop " and careful application of the 
principles of correct exposure, it is possible to 
overcome many adverse conditions. 

An acquaintance once expressed surprise that 
I was willing to spend day after day of my vaca- 
tion walking about with a heavy camera case, 
full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky 
tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it 
was no heavier than a bagful of golf -sticks, that 
the walk took me through an endless variety of 
beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was 
fascinating. Of course, my friend could not ap- 
preciate my point of view, for he had never 
paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to 
study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades 
of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the 
pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening , 
"- 9 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where 
seen through the transparent cover of the shallow 
water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in 
the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, 
foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded 
outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the 
loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon 
such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought 
that something of the marvelous beauty which 
nature daily spreads before us can be captured 
and taken home as a permanent reminder of 
what we have seen. 

To catch the charm of such a scene is no child's 
play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and 
other appliances, skill derivable only from long 
study and experience, and a natural appreciation 
of the artistic point of view. It requires even 
more, for the plate must be developed and the 
prints made, both operations calling for skill and 
a sense of the artistic. 

The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and 
in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of 
obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy 
opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. 
If the opponents are " easy," there is no fun in 
the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship 
complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman 
would rather land one big black bass after a long 
struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost 
jump into your boat without an invitation. 

10 




A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Photography as a sport possesses this element 
in perfection. Those who love danger may find 
plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging 
rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and 
tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may 
find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for 
the purpose of taking the animal's picture than 
they would get if they took his life. Those who 
care only to hunt landscapes — and* in this class 
I include myself — can find all the sport they 
want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not 
only the exhilaration of searching out the attract- 
ive scenes, — the rugged mountain-peak ; the 
woodland brook ; the shady lane, with perhaps a 
border of white birches ; the ruined castle ; the 
seaside cliffs ; the well-concealed cascade ; or the 
scene of some noteworthy historical event, — but 
the art of photography itself presents its own 
problems at every turn. To solve all these ; to 
select the right point of view ; to secure an artistic 
"balance" in all parts of the picture; to avoid 
the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting 
in the way ; to make due allowance for the effect 
of wind or motion ; to catch the full beauty of 
the drifting clouds ; to obtain the desired trans- 
parency in the shadows, — these and a hundred 
other considerations give sufficient exercise to the 
most alert mind and add to the never-ending 
fascination of the game. 

I have noticed that the camera does not lure, 
" 11 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

one into the beaten tracks which tourists most 
frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded 
coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets 
nervous when too many people are around, espe- 
cially if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its 
work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths 
and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is 
a charming guide to follow. I have always felt 
a sense of relief when able to escape the inter- 
minable jargon of the professional guides who 
conduct tourists through the various show places 
of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune 
to visit such places, have usually left with a vague 
feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, 
when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have 
sought an acquaintance with the owner of some 
famous house and have proceeded at leisure to 
photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I 
have left not only with a sense of complete satis- 
faction, but with a new friendship to add to the 
pleasure of future memories. 

To visit the places made famous by their asso- 
ciations with literature and with history ; to seek 
the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe- 
inspiring, like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland 
and the vast depths of the Grand Canon, or rest- 
ful in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills 
and valleys of Westmoreland ; to see the people 
in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble 
cottages ; to find new beauty daily, whether at 

12 




PROFILE LAKE 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in 
the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing 
panorama of the clouds ; to gain that relief from 
the cares of business or professional lif e which 
comes from opening the mind to a free and full 
contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful, 
— these are the possibilities offered by amateur 
photography to those who will follow the lure of 
the camera. 



II 

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 



II 

LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

I 
MERSON said of the English people, " Every 



one of these islanders is an island himself, 
safe, tranquil, incommunicable," and that "It is 
almost an affront to look a man in the face without 
being introduced." Holmes, on the contrary, re- 
cords that he and his daughter were " received 
with nothing but the most overflowing hospital- 
ity and the most considerate kindness." Lowell 
found the average Briton likely to regard himself 
as " the only real thing in a wilderness of shams," 
and thought his patronage "divertingly insuf- 
ferable." On the other hand, he praised the gen- 
uineness of the better men of England, as " so 
manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to 
wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is 
thicker than water." Longfellow met at dinner 
on two successive days what he called " the two 
opposite poles of English character." One of 
them was "taciturn, reserved, fastidious" and 
without " power of enjoyment " ; the other was 
" expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laugh- 
ing loud and long." All of this suggests that in 
attempting to write one's impressions of the 
- 17 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

English or any other people, one must remember, 
what I once heard a Western schoolmaster de- 
clare with great emphasis — "some people are 
not all alike ! " 

I have but one impression to record, namely, 
that, almost without exception, the people whom 
we met, both in England and Scotland, mani- 
fested a spirit of helpfulness that made our pho- 
tographic work delightful and led to the accom- 
plishment of results not otherwise obtainable. 
They not only showed an unexpected interest in 
our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obli- 
gation to assist. This was true even of the police- 
man at the gate of the Tower of London, who, 
according to his orders, deprived me of my camera 
before I could enter. But upon my protesting, 
he referred me to another guardian of the place, 
and he to another, until, continuing to pass 
" higher up," I was at last photographing every- 
thing of interest, including the "Beef-Eater" 
who obligingly carried my case of plates. When- 
ever difficulties arose, these helpful people always 
seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be 
more than courtesy. It was rath era friendly sym- 
pathy, a desire that I might have what I came 
for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should 
not be disappointed. 

An incident which happened at the very out- 
set of our photographic experiences in England, 
and one which was responsible in large measure 

18 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

for milch of the success of that undertaking, will 
serve as an example of the genial and sympa- 
thetic spirit which seemed to be everywhere 
prevalent. We had started to discover and to 
photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of 
George Eliot's writings, and on the day of our 
arrival in London, my wife had found in the 
British Museum a particularly interesting por- 
trait of George Henry Lewes. She* learned that 
permission to copy it must be obtained from the 
Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the 
following morning I appeared in the great room 
of the Museum where thousands of rare prints 
are carefully preserved. 

Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biogra- 
pher of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of 
this department, was not in, but a polite assist- 
ant made note of my name and message, making 
at the same time an appointment for the next day. 
At the precise hour named I was present again, 
revolving in my mind the briefest possible method 
of requesting permission to copy the Lewes pic- 
ture. Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin 
wished to see me, and I followed the guide, me- 
chanically repeating to myself the little formula 
or speech I intended to make, and wondering 
what luck I should have. The formula disap- 
peared instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman ad- 
vanced with outstretched hand and genial smile, 
calling me by name and saying, " I have some- 
- 19 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

thing I want to show you, if you would care to 
see it." Considerably surprised, I saw him touch 
a button as he resumed, — " It 's a picture of 
George Eliot, — at least we think it is, but we 
are not sure, — we bought it from the executor 
of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist." 
Here the attendant appeared and was instructed 
to get the portrait. It proved to be a large paint- 
ing in water-colors of a woman's face, with re- 
markably strong, almost masculine features and 
a pair of eyes that seemed to say, " If any woman 
in the world can do a man's thinking, I 'm that 
person." A letter received subsequently, in an- 
swer to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, 
who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well 
as the painter, definitely established the fact that 
the newly discovered portrait was a " study " for 
the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton 
painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more 
of the true womanliness of George Eliot's char- 
acter, for he certainly softened the expression of 
those determined-looking eyes. 

After we had discussed the picture at some 
length, my new-found friend inquired about my 
plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as pos- 
sible, the scenes of George Eliot's novels and to 
photograph all the various places of interest. 
" Of course you '11 go to Nuneaton ? " he asked. 
" Yes," I replied, in a tone of assurance ; " I ex- 
pect to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel 

20 ' 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

Manor." " I suppose, then, you are acquainted 
with Mr. Newdegate," said he, inquiringly. I had 
to confess that I did not know the gentleman. 
Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. " Why, you 
can't get in if you don't know him. Arbury is 
a private estate." This remark struck me with 
stunning force. I had supposed I could go any- 
where. The game was a new one to me, and here 
at the very beginning appeared to be an insur- 
mountable barrier. Of course, I could not ex- 
pect to walk into private houses and grounds to 
make photographs, and how was I to make the 
acquaintance of these people ? Mr. Colvin seemed 
to read my thought and promptly solved the 
problem. "I happen to know Mr. Newdegate 
well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I '11 give 
you a letter of introduction. — No, I '11 do better. 
I '11 write and tell him you 're coming." 

This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I 
was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was 
unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the 
original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did 
not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if 
I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, 
" Of course, you will have permission to copy the 
Lewes picture " ; and the interview ended with 
his promise to have the official photographer 
make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to 
report that the Lewes picture had been obtained 
without even asking for it, and the next morning 
. 21 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

received a message from the owner of Arbury 
Hall cordially inviting us to visit him. 

Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, 
somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir 
Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hang- 
ing side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel 
Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, 
therefore, eager to find them. 

We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, 
where we passed the night at the veritable tavern 
which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster's con- 
viviality. Readers of "Janet's Repentance" will 
recall that the great " man of deeds " addressed 
the mob in the street from an upper window of 
the " Red Lion," protesting against the " temp- 
tation to vice" involved in the proposition to 
hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He 
brought the meeting to a close by calling for 
" Three cheers for True Religion " ; then retiring 
with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, 
he caused " the most capacious punch-bowl " to 
be brought out and continued the festivities until 
after midnight, " when several friends of sound 
religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, 
one of them showing a dogged determination to 
seat himself in the gutter." 

The old tavern, one of the few which still re- 
tain the old-fashioned arched doorways through 
which the coaches used to enter to change horses, 

22 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

boasts of having entertained guests no less dis- 
tinguished than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal 
Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was 
true, for the house smelled as if it had not been 
swept since Shakespeare's time. 

In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the 
private grounds of which make a beautifully 
wooded park of three hundred acres. The man- 
sion is seen to the best advantage f r-om the oppo- 
site side of a little pool, where the surrounding 
trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in 
the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are 
waving gently in the summer air, and the pond- 
lilies spread their round green leaves to make 
a richer, deeper background for their blossoms 
of purest white. On a green knoll behind this 
charming foreground stands a gray stone man- 
sion of rectangular shape, its sharp corners soft- 
ened with ivy and by the foliage at either end. 
Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked 
on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each 
with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pin- 
nacles surmounting the walls on every side, give 
a distinguished air to the building, as though it 
were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic 
aspect was imparted to the mansion something 
over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdi- 
gate, who was the prototype of George Eliot's Sir 
Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes 
the place as if in the process of remodeling. 
- 23 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

We were cordially welcomed by the present 
owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly 
confirmed our first impressions of British cour- 
tesy. After some preliminary conversation we 
rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw 
open a door and instantly we were face to face 
with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christo- 
pher and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had 
stood in my mind as the only known objects of 
interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the 
way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George 
Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, prob- 
ably a full score of years after her last visit to 
the place, and this is one of several slight mis- 
takes. These fine portraits, really representing 
Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the 
end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, 
with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic 
style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its 
tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in West- 
minster Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is 
called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the 
very one through which Sir Christopher stepped 
into the room and found various members of his 
household " examining the progress of the un- 
finished ceiling." 

Looking out through these windows, our host 
noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a 
drive through the park before the shower. Soon 
his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty 

24 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

little horse appropriately named " Lightheart," 
for no animal with so fond a master could possi- 
bly have a care in the world. We stopped for a few 
minutes at Astley Castle, the " Knebley Abbey " 
of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, 
once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour 
and his ill-fated protegee, Lady Jane Grey. Then, 
after a brief pause at the parson's cottage, we 
proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building 
with a square tower such as one sees throughout 
England. 

A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure 
suggested George Eliot's bucolic parson, the Rev- 
erend Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the 
farmers and talked of "short-horns "and "shar- 
rags"and "yowes" during the week, and on 
Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old ser- 
mons to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his 
parishioners. We photographed this ancient 
temple on the inside as well as outside, for it 
contains some curious frescoes representing the 
saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which 
one is expected to obtain excellent moral les- 
sons. 

Our next objective was the birthplace of 
George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one 
corner of the park. We were driving rapidly 
along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, 
when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. 
I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, 
^ 25 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down 
a steep embankment, then up again, and the next 
instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the 
ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into 
a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I 
saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a 
ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on 
the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident 
except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome 
with excitement. He had encountered some men 
on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved 
not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, 
seemed a deadly peril. 

Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked 
back to the house, and in due season sat down to 
luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that 
splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought 
"looked less like a place to dine in than a piece 
of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful 
outline." A cathedral-like aspect is given to the 
room by the great Gothic windows which form 
the distinguishing architectural feature of the 
building. These open into an alcove, large enough 
in itself, but small when compared with the main 
part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is 
heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of 
the canopies built over various niches in the walls, 
or rather it would be, were it not for the fact 
that the latter are filled with life-size statues in 
white marble, of a distinctly classical character. 

26 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous 
proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of 
which would not be inappropriate for some fine 
artar-jDiece ; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in 
a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any 
churchly thoughts, though they seem to be 
having a heavenly time. 

After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, 
in the left wing of the building, examining a first 
folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself 
with various notes of introduction and other 
memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the 
oriel window of this room, — the same in which 
Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp, — 
we noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, 
and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They 
proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It 
is related that Sir Roger Newdigate — "Sir Chris- 
topher Cheverel," it will be remembered — used 
to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her be- 
longings scattered over his library. She — good 
woman — was not only obedient, but possessed 
a sense of humor as well, for she promptly re- 
moved the articles, but later took advantage of 
her lord's absence to leave their "counterfeit 
presentment" in such permanent form that there 
they have remained for more than a century. 

"The opposite wing of the mansion contains 
the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is 
lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that 

27 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

in the library. The walls are decorated with a 
series o£ long narrow panels, united at the top by 
intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, 
in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole 
building. It was curious to note how well George 
Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length 
portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel " standing with 
one arm akimbo," exactly as described. How did 
the novelist happen to remember that "arm 
akimbo," if, as is quite likely, she had not seen 
the room for more than twenty years ? 

It was in this room that Catarina sat down to 
the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in 
the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The 
harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played 
— her name was Sally Shilton — is now upstairs 
in the long gallery, and here we saw not only 
that interesting instrument, but also the " queer 
old family portraits ... of faded, pink-faced 
ladies, with rudimentary features and highly 
developed head-dresses — of gallant gentlemen, 
with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed 
beards." 

Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of help- 
fulness that we had met in his friend Mr. Col- 
vin, informed us that he had invited the Rever- 
end Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a 
nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, 
but an engagement had interfered. We were in- 
vited, however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, 

28 • 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. 
Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing vari- 
ous mementoes o£ her husband's distinguished 
relative, including a lace cap worn by George 
Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Count- 
ess Czerlaski of " The Sad Fortune of the Rev- 
erend Amos Barton." I can still hear the ring 
of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, 
and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, 
" And here is Aunt Grlegg ! " There she was, sure 
enough, with the "fuzzy front of curls" which 
were always " economized " by not wearing them 
until after 10.30 a.m. At this point the canon 
suddenly asked, "Have you seen the stone table?" 
I had been looking for this table. It is the one 
where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found 
him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramat- 
ically told in "Middlemarch." I had expected to 
find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home 
of George Eliot's girlhood, but the arbor at the 
end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were 
quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us 
into his garden and there showed us the original 
table of stone which the novelist had in mind 
when she wrote the incident. 

Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had 
busied himself in writing, while we sat in his 
library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, 

Dr. N , who, he said, knew more about George 

Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We 

29 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

accordingly stopped our little coupe at the doc- 
tor's door, as we drove back to town. He insisted 
upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was 
no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and 
told the driver to follow. In this way we were 
able to identify nearly all the localities of " Amos 
Barton" and "Janet's Repentance." He also 
pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann 
Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. 
We arrived just as school was dismissed and a 
crowd of modern school children insisted upon 
adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. 
They looked so fresh and interesting that I made 
no objection. 

On the next evening we were entertained by 
the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture 
of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. 
The doctor explained that the artist, when a 
young girl, had known George Eliot's father and 
mother, and had been interested to paint various 
scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not 
to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What 
was my astonishment when, upon returning to 
London a few weeks later, I found a letter from 
this same good lady, expressing regret that she had 
not met us, and stating that she was sending me 
twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among 
them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, 
the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from 
life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait 

30 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the 
bogus countess. These dear people seemed deter- 
mined to make our quest a success. 

We now turned our attention to "Adam 
Bede," traveling into Staffordshire and Derby- 
shire, where Robert Evans, the novelist's father 
and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and 
spent the years of his young manhood. Here 
again we were assisted by good-natured English 
people. The first was a station agent. Just as 
the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night 
we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of 
Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces 
of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment 
of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, 
two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the 
home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a cen- 
tury ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, 
the only person in sight was the station agent, 
who looked with some surprise at the pile of 
luggage. 

In reply to our question, he recommended 
walking as the best and only way to reach Ella- 
stone. A stroll of two miles, over an unknown 
and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or 
three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did 
not appeal to us, particularly as it was now be- 
ginning to rain. We suggested a carriage, but 
there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no 
such conveniences. It began to look as though 
^ 31 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on 
the station platform. But the good-natured agent, 
whose day's work was now done, and who was 
anxious to go home to his supper, placed the 
ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our dis- 
posal, and a boy was found who was willing to 
go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether 
the inn was open (the agent thought not), 
and if so, whether any one there would send 
a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour en- 
sued, during which we congratulated ourselves 
that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket- 
office, it would at least be dryer than the plat- 
form. At last the boy returned with the news 
that the inn was not open, but that a carriage 
would be sent for us ! After another seemingly 
interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome 
sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had 
arrived ! It was a butcher's cart. When the bag- 
gage was thrown in, there was but one seat left 
— the one beside the driver. Small chance for 
two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was 
only one solution. I climbed in and took the only 
remaining seat, while my knees automatically 
formed another one which my companion in 
misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, 
twisting and turning through a wet and muddy 
lane, so dark that the only visible part of the 
horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces 
from one direction and the rain from another, 

32 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

but happy in the hope and expectation that if 
the cart did not turn over and throw us into the 
hedges, we should soon find a better place for a 
night's lodging than a country railway station. 

In due time we reached the inn, the very one 
before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and 
invited Adam Bede to "step in an' tek some- 
think." We were greeted with equal hospitality 
by the landlord's wife, who ushered us into the 
" best parlor," kindled a rousing fire in the grate 
(English fires are not usually "rousing"), and 
asked what we would have for supper. By the 
time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on 
our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. 
It disappeared with such promptness as to bring 
tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook — none 
other than the hospitable landlady herself. We 
then found ourselves settled for the night in a 
large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the 
best chamber in the house. " Oh, no, sir, the inn 
is not open," explained our good Samaritan, "but 
we 're always glad to make strangers comfort- 
able." These words indicate the spirit of the 
remark, which we comprehended because helped 
by the good lady's eyes, her smile, and her ges- 
tures. I cannot set down the exact words for the 
reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot's 
landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to 
Adam : " They 're cur'ous talkers i' this country ; 
the gentry 's hard work to hunderstand 'em ; I 
" 33 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an' got 
the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, 
what do you think the folks here says for i hev n't 
you'? — the gentry, you know, says, i hev n't 
you' — well, the people about here says, 'hanna 
yey.' It 's what they call the dileck as is spoke 
hereabout, sir." 

It was curious to note, when we explored the 
village the next morning, that Ellastone is even 
now apparently just the same little hamlet it was 
in the time of George Eliot's father. I had never 
expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, 
of course, that it would be swallowed up by 
some big manufacturing town. But here it was 
exactly as represented — except that Adam Bede's 
cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a 
few small houses now occupy the village green 
where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, 
with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox 
style, still remains the chief landmark of the vil- 
lage as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert 
Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a 
servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the 
young man was also employed as a carpenter. 
Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of 
our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and 
was the original of the old squire in "Adam 
Bede." This fine old estate was the Donnithorne 
Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it 
worthy of a visit. We found the fine old "hoaks" 

34 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

there,, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, 
and with them some equally fine elms and a pro- 
fusion of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged 
about a series of broad stone terraces, stained 
with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave 
the place the dignified aspect of some ancient 
palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the 
owner was not at home, but the gardener main- 
tained the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy 
by showing us the beauties of the place from all 
the best points of view. 

It has not been my intention to follow in de- 
tail the events of our exploration of the country 
of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes 
of varied interest which were gradually unfolded 
to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is 
likely to happen to an amateur photographer in 
search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes 
a real pleasure when the people one meets mani- 
fest a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly 
helpfulness such as we experienced almost invari- 
ably. 

n 

There were some occasions upon which the 
chain of courtesy, to which I have previously 
referred, if not actually broken, received some 
dangerous strains, when great care had to be 
taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly but- 
lers and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we 
- 35 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

encountered one of the species in the Lake Dis- 
trict. I had called at the country residence of 
Captain , a wealthy gentleman and a mem- 
ber of Parliament. The place was celebrated for 
its wonderful gardens and is described in one of 
the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High- 
and-Mightiness, the Butler, was suffering from a 
severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffen- 
ing of the muscles of the back and shoulders. 
He would do nothing except inform me that his 
Master was "not at 'ome." I could only leave a 
message and say I would return. The next day 
I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, 
his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal 
column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. 

" Captain is ex-treme-\j sorry he cawnt 

meet you, sir. He 's obliged to be in Lunnun to- 
day, sir, but he towld me to sai to you, sir, that 
you 're to taik everythink in the 'ouse you want, 
sir." And then the Important One gave me full 
possession while I photographed the most inter- 
esting rooms, coming back occasionally to in- 
quire whether I wished him to move " hany har- 
ticles of furniture," afterward hunting up the 
gardener, who in turn conducted me through the 
sacred precincts of his own particular domain. 

At another time, also in connection with Mrs. 
Ward's novels, I came dangerously near to an- 
other break. It was down in Surrey, whither we 
had gone to visit the scenery of " Robert Els- 

36 ' 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

mere." I knocked at the door of a little stone 
cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown 
into the presence of a very old gentleman, who 
looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at 
me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. 
I explained that I was an American and had come 
to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, 
and after some further scrutiny of my face, my 
clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, " Well, 
you people in America must be crazy to come all 
the way over here to photograph this house. I 
have always said it 's the ugliest house in Eng- 
land, owned by the ugliest landlord that ever 
lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the 
parish." Fortunately he was not possessed of the 
Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some 
of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) 
to pass out into the picture, and upon further 
reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic 
wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, 
it would n't matter much after all. 

Not infrequently it happened that the keepers 
in charge of certain places of public interest, 
while desiring to be courteous themselves, were 
bound by strict instructions from their superiors. 
In the year when we were exploring the length 
and breadth of England and Scotland in search 
of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott's writings, we 
came one day to a famous hall, generously thrown 

open to the public by the Duke of , who 

- 37 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of 
"stands" or tripods would not be permitted in 
the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras were 
freely allowed, but these are always more or less 
dependent on chance, and for interior views, re- 
quiring a long time-exposure, are worthless. The 
duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but 
was afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must 
have views of the famous rooms of that house, 
and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But 
orders were orders and he remained inflexible, 
but always courteous. He wanted to help, how- 
ever, and finally conducted me to a cottage near 
by where I was presented to his immediate su- 
perior, a good-looking and good-natured woman. 
She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige, 
but the duke's orders were imperative. Finally a 
thought struck me. " You say stands are forbid- 
den — would it be an infraction of the rules if I 
were to rest my camera on a table or chair?" 
" Oh, no, indeed ! " she quickly replied ; then, 
calling to the keeper, said, " John, I want you to 
do everything you can for this gentleman." John 
seemed pleased. He first performed his duty to 
the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod 
where it could do no harm. Then taking charge of 
us, he conducted us through the well-worn rooms, 
meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after 
other visitors and keep them out of our way. I 
rested my camera on ancient chairs and tables so 

38 * 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

precious that the visitors were not permitted to 
touch them, John kindly removing the protecting 
ropes. We were taken to parts of the house and 
garden not usually shown to visitors, so anxious 
was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we 
came to a great ballroom, with richly carved wood- 
work, but absolutely bare of furniture. Here the 
forbidden " stand " was sorely needed. My com- 
panion promptly came to the rescue. ee I '11 be the 
tripod," said she. The hint was a good one, so, 
resting the camera upon her shoulder, I soon had 
my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing 
the camera on a convenient window-ledge just 
above my head, and making allowance for the 
increased elevation, I gave the plate a long ex- 
posure and the result was as good an " interior " 
as I ever made. 

This is one of the best parts of the game — 
the overcoming of obstacles. Without it, photog- 
raphy would be poor fun, something like the 
game of checkers I once played with a village 
rustic. He swept off all my men in half a dozen 
moves and then went away disgusted. I was too 
easy. A picture that is not worth taking a little 
trouble to get is usually not worth having. I 
have even been known to take pictures I really 
did not need, just because some unexpected diffi- 
culties arose. 

Another part of the pursuit, which I have 
always enjoyed, is the quiet amusement one can 
^ 39 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

often derive from unexpected situations. One day 
in London, when the streets were pretty well 
crowded with Coronation visitors, we decided to 
take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in 
front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the pre- 
caution to secure a permit, so, without asking any 
questions, proceeded to spread out my tripod and 
compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate- 
holder, a " Bobby," by which name the London 
policeman is generally known, appeared, advanc- 
ing with an air that plainly said, " I '11 soon stop 
that game, my fine fellow ! " I expressed my sur- 
prise and said I had a permit, at the same time 
drawing the slide — an action which, not being 
a photographer, he did not consider significant. 
He looked scornfully at the permit, and said it 
was not good after 10 a.m. Here, again, the as- 
sistant photographer of our expedition came to 
the rescue. She exercised the woman's privilege 
of asking "Why?" and "Bobby" moved from in 
front of the camera to explain. " Click " went the 
shutter, in went the slide, out came the plate-holder, 
and into the case went the camera. "Bobby'' 
politely apologized for interfering, and expressed 
his deep regret at being obliged to disappoint 
us. I solemnly assured him that it was all right, 
that he had only done his duty and that I did not 
blame him in the least ! But I neglected to inform 
him that the Victoria Monument was already mine. 
One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera 
40 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

is that it takes you to so many out-of-the-way 
places, which you would not otherwise be likely 
to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her " Recollec- 
tions of a Tour in Scotland" complains that all 
the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad. Dor- 
othy ought to have known, for she and William 
walked most of the way to save their bones from 
dislocation by the jolting of their little cart, and 
their limited resources compelled them to seek 
the shelter and food of the poorest inns. The 
modern tourist, on the contrary, will find excel- 
lent roads and for the most part hotel accommo- 
dations where he can be fairly comfortable. It 
was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as 
occasionally happened, we could find nothing but 
an inn of the kind that flourished a century ago. 
On a very rainy morning in May we alighted 
from the train at the little village of Ecclefechan, 
known to the world only as the birthplace of 
Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom 
we inquired the location of a good hotel, answered 
in a Scotch dialect so broad that we could not 
compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, 
and as it afforded the only escape from the pour- 
ing rain, we stepped in and trusted to luck. The 
vehicle presently drew up before the door of a 
very ancient hotel, from which the landlady, 
whom we have ever since called "Mrs. Eccle- 
fechan," came out to meet us. She was a frail 
little woman, well along in years, with thin fea- 
-41 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

tures, sharp eyes, and a bald head, the last o£ 
which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort 
of peaked black bonnet, tied with strings be- 
neath her chin, and suggesting the rather curious 
spectacle of a bishop's miter above a female face. 
Her dress was looped up by pinning the bottom 
of it around her waist, exposing a gray-and- white 
striped petticoat that came down halfway between 
the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a 
pair of coarse woolen stockings and some heavy 
shoes. A burlap apron completed the costume. 

Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, 
clerk, porter, cook, chambermaid, waitress, bar- 
maid, and bootblack of the establishment, was 
possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as 
comfortable as her limited facilities would permit. 
We were taken into the public-room, a space 
about twelve feet square, with a small open fire 
at one end, benches around the walls and a 
table occupying nearly all the remaining space. 
Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where 
the landlady baked her oatmeal cake and 
served the regulars who came for a " penny 'orth 
o' rum " and a bit of gossip. In front was an- 
other tiny room where were served fastidious 
guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. 
At noon we sat down to a luncheon, which might 
have been worse, and at five were summoned into 
the little room again. We thought it curious 
to serve hard boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and 

42 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

thinking supper would soon be ready, declined 
them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans 
with big, healthy appetites, for the supper never 
came. The eggs were it. 

We spent the evening in the public-room sit- 
ting near the fire. One by one the villagers 
dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and 
spending an hour or two over a very small glass. 
The evenings had been spent in that way in that 
place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in 
the atmosphere of " long ago." A middle-aged 
Scotchman, whose name was pronounced, very 
broadly, "Fronk," seemed to feel the responsi- 
bility of entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly 
I thought, a song by Lady Nairne, " The Auld 
Hoose," and recited with fine appreciation the 
lines of Burns' s " Lament for James, Earl of 
Glencairn," " To a Mouse," " To a Louse," and 
other poems. He related how Burns once helped 
a friend out of a dilemma. Three women had 
been buried side by side. The son of one of them 
wished to put an inscription on his mother's tomb- 
stone, but the sexton could not remember which 
grave was hers. Burns solved the problem by 
suggesting these lines : — 

" Here, or there, or thereaboots, 

Lies the body of Janet Coutts, 
But here, or there, or whereaboots, 

Nane can tell 
Till Janet rises and tells hersel." 
- 43 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Our landlady assured us that Fronk "had the 
bluid o' Douglas in his veins," but he was now 
only a poor " ne'er-do-weel," picking up " a bit 
shillin' " now and then. But he loved Bobbie 
Burns. 

After the evening's entertainment we were 
shown to a tiny bedroom. Over the horrors up- 
stairs I must draw the veil of charity, only re- 
marking that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I 
shall seek out a nice soft pile of old scrap-iron 
for a couch, rather than risk another night on 
one of those beds. 

Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, 
which is now one of the " restored " show places, 
and an interesting one. We also went to the 
graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we 
were conducted by an old woman, nearly ninety 
years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived 
in the village all her days. We asked if she had 
ever seen Carlyle. " Oh, yes," she replied, wearily, 
"I hae seen 'im. He was a coo-rious mon." 
Then brightening she added, with a smile that 
revealed her heart of hearts, "But we a' love 
Bobbie Burns." And so we found it throughout 
Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissi- 
pated wanderer shared with the intelligent and 
cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love 
for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably 
called, affectionately, "Bobbie." 

It was not long after this that we had occasion 
44 ' 




THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

to visit the land of Burns, for a trip through 
Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for 
the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would 
scarcely be possible without many glimpses of the 
places made famous by the elder and less cultured 
but not less beloved poet. Scott's intimacy with 
Adam Ferguson, the son of the distinguished Dr. 
Adam Ferguson, was the means of his introduction 
to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it 
was at the house of the latter, that Scott, then a 
boy of fifteen, met Burns for the first and only 
time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet 
by promptly naming the author of a poem which 
Burns had quoted, when no one else in the room 
could give the information. It is a far cry from 
the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the 
tavern in the Canongate where the "Crochallan 
Fencibles" used to meet, but here the lines 
crossed again, for to this resort for convivial 
souls Burns came to enjoy the bacchanalian rev- 
els known as "High Jinks," in the same way 
as did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott's 
fictitious Paulus Pleydell. 

We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a 
number of places described by Scott in "Guy 
Mannering," " Redgauntlet," and other novels, 
and found ourselves in the very heart of the 
Burns country. In the center of High Street 
stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which 
the original Effie Deans, whose real name was 

45 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder. Here 
the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save 
her sister's life, afterward walking to London to 
secure her pardon. Almost around the corner is 
the house where Burns's Jean lived, and where 
" Bobbie" died. In the same town is the church- 
yard of St. Michaels where Burns lies buried in 
a handsome " muselum," as one of the natives 
informed us. 

Out on the road toward the old church of 
Kirkpatrick Irongray, where Scott erected a mon- 
ument to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie 
Deans, is a small remnant of the house once oc- 
cupied by that heroine. In the same general 
direction but a little farther to the north, on the 
banks of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns 
attempted to manage a farm, attend to the duties 
of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at 
the same time. Out of the last came "Tarn 
o' Shanter," but the other two " attempts " were 
failures. 

We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast 
of Carrick and what is left of the ancestral home 
of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero landed, 
with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graph- 
ically related by Scott in " The Lord of the Isles." 
Here again we were in Burns's own country. In 
the city of Ayr we saw the " Twa Brigs " and 
the very tavern which Tarn o' Shanter may be 
supposed to have frequented, — 

46 



RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN 

" And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie." 

Of course we drove to Burns's birthplace, about 
three miles to the south, a long, narrow cottage 
with a thatched roof, one end of which was 
dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was 
built by the poet's father, with his own hands, 
and when Robert was born there in the winter 
of 1759 probably looked a great deal less re- 
spectable than it does now. 

Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway 
Kirk for a view of the old church where Tarn 
o' Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the 
witches and started on his famous ride. The 
keeper felt personally aggrieved because I pre- 
ferred to utilize my limited time to make a picture 
of the church, rather than listen to his repetition 
of a tale which I already knew by heart. We 
traveled over Tarn's route and soon had a fine 
view of the old "Brig o' Doon," where Tarn at 
length escaped the witches at the expense of his 
poor nag's tail. I have made few pictures that 
pleased me more than that of the " auld brig," 
which I was~ able to get by placing my camera on 
the new bridge near by. Here the memory of 
Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memo- 
rial, in the form of a Grecian temple and very 
similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, 
but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded 
by a garden of well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of 

47 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

various kinds, and a wealth of brightly blooming 
flowers, and best of all, stands well above the 
"banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," where the 
poet himself would have been happy to stand and 
look upon his beloved river. 

Whatever may have been "Bobbie's" faults, 
and, poor fellow, they were many and grievous, 
there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle 
of love beneath which they have been concealed 
and forgotten. He touched the hearts of his 
countrymen as none other ever did, and out of 
the sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung 
beautiful flowers, laid out along well-ordered and 
graceful paths, a delight and solace to his fellow- 
men, like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the 
lovely garden at the base of his memorial over- 
looking the Doon. 



Ill 

A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 



Ill 

A DAY IN WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

OUR arrival on Saturday evening at the vil- 
lage of Windermere was like the sudden 
and unexpected realization of a dream. On many 
a winter night, under the light of our library 
lamp at home, we had talked of that vague, distant 
" sometime " when we should visit the English 
Lakes. And now — by what curious combination 
of circumstances we did not try to analyze — 
here we were with the whole beautiful panorama, 
in all its evening splendors, spread out before 
us. Through our minds passed, as in a vision, the 
whole company of poets who are inseparably as- 
sociated with these scenes : Wordsworth, whose 
abiding influence upon the spirit of poetry will 
endure as long as the mountains and vales which 
taught him to love and reverence nature ; Southey, 
who, himself without the appreciation of na- 
ture, was the first to recognize Wordsworth's 
rare power of interpreting her true meaning; 
Coleridge, the most intimate friend of the 
greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be 
the most wonderful man he ever met, and who, 
in spite of those short-comings which caused 
his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless 
- 51 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

possessed a native eloquence and alluring per- 
sonality. 

Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent 
twenty of the happiest years of his life at Dove 
Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. 
His most intimate companion was the famous 
Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, known to all 
readers of " Blackwood's Magazine " as " Chris- 
topher North." Attracted partly by the beauty of 
the Lake Country, but more by his desire to cul- 
tivate the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius 
he greatly admired, Professor Wilson bought a 
pretty place in Cumberland, where he lived for 
several years. He enjoyed the companionship of 
the friendly group of poets, but, we are told, oc- 
casionally sought a different kind of pleasure in 
measuring his strength with some of the native 
wrestlers, one of the most famous of whom has 
testified that he found him "a very bad un to 
lick." 

At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found 
himself drawn to the Lakes by the same double 
attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox 
How on the River Rothay, where his youngest 
daughter still resides. He wrote in 1832 : " Our 
intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the 
brightest spots of all ; nothing could exceed their 
friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him 
were things not to be forgotten." 

It was not alone the beauty of the Westmore- 
52 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

land scenery that had attracted this group of 
famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland 
and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. 
But Wordsworth was here, in the midst of those 
charming displays of Nature in her most cheer- 
ful as well as most soothing moods. Nature's 
best interpreter and Nature herself could be seen 
together. For a hundred years this same influ- 
ence has continued to exercise its spell upon trav- 
elers, and we are bound to recognize the fact that 
this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from our 
prearranged path, that we might enjoy the plea- 
sure of a Sunday in the country of Wordsworth. 
The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, 
suggesting that splendid day when Wordsworth, 
then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed 
of an irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry : 

" Magnificent 
The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, 
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, 
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; 
And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn — 
Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds, 
And laborers going forth to till the fields. 
Ah ! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim 
My heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows 
Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me 
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, 
A dedicated spirit." 

v. 53 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

We resolved that the whole, of this beautiful 
day should be devoted to catching something of 
that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills 
which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and 
through him taught the love of Nature to count- 
less thousands. A few steps took us away from 
the town, the inn, and the other tourists, into a 
quiet woodland path leading toward the lake, at 
the end of which we stood 

" On long Winander's eastern shore." 

"Winander" is the old form of Windermere. 
The lake was the scene of many of Wordsworth's 
boyhood experiences. 

" When summer came, 
Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, 
To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
With rival oars ; and the selected bourne 
Was now an Island musical with birds 
That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
And now a third small Island, where survived 
In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race, 
So ended, disappointment could be none, 
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : 
We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength, 
And the vainglory of superior skill, 
Were tempered." 

54 ' 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

Wordsworth's boyhood was probably very 
much like that of other boys. He tells us that he 
was "stiff, moody, and of a violent temper" — 
so much so that he went up into his grandfather's 
attic one day, while under the resentment of 
some indignity, determined to destroy himself. 
But his heart failed. On another occasion he re- 
lates that while at his grandfather's house in 
Penrith, he and his eldest brother "Richard were 
whipping tops in the large drawing-room. " The 
walls were hung round with family pictures, and 
I said to my brother, i Dare you strike your whip 
through that old lady's petticoat ? ' He replied, 
'No, I won't.' ' Then,' said I, 'here goes ! ' and 
I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat ; 
for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, 
I was properly punished. But, possibly from some 
want of judgment in the punishments inflicted, 
I had become perverse and obstinate in defying 
chastisement, and rather proud of it than other- 
wise." Lowell remarks upon this incident: "Just 
so do we find him afterward striking; his defiant 
lash through the hooped petticoat of the arti- 
ficial style of poetry, and proudly unsubdued by 
the punishment of the Reviewers." When scarcely 
ten years old, it was his joy 

" To range the open heights where woodcocks run." 

He would spend half the night " scudding away 
from snare to snare," sometimes yielding to the 

55 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

temptation to take the birds caught in the snare o£ 
some other lad. He felt the average boy's terror 
inspired by a guilty conscience, for he says : — 

" And when the deed was done, 
I heard among the solitary hills 
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds 
Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
Almost as silent as the turf they trod." 

Across the lake from where we stood, and over 
beyond the hills on the other side, is the quaint 
old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was 
sent to school at the age of nine years. The little 
school-house may still be seen, but it is of small 
import. The real scenes of Wordsworth's early 
education were the woods and vales, the soli- 
tary cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of 
Esthwaite, live miles round, which he was fond 
of encircling in his early morning walks, that he 
might sit 

"Alone upon some jutting eminence, 
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, 
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude." 

In winter-time " a noisy crew " made merry upon 
the icy surface of the lake. 

" All shod with steel, 
We hissed along the polished ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
And not a voice was idle." 
56 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. 
Dances, feasts, public revelry, and 

" A swarm 
Of heady schemes, jostling each other," 

all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind 
away from the paths of "books and nature," 
which he would have preferred. But, curiously 
enough, it was after one of these nights of rev- 
elry that, on his way home, Wordsworth was so 
much impressed with the beauties of the dawn 
that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, 
to devote himself to poetry. 

No other poet ever gave such an account of the 
development of his own mind as Wordsworth 
gives in the "Prelude." And while he recounts 
enough incidents like the snaring of woodcock, 
the fishing for trout in the quiet pools and the 
cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of 
kites on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the 
rowing on the lake, and in the winter-time the 
skating and dancing, to convince us that he was 
really a boy, yet he continually shows that be- 
neath it all there was a deeper feeling — a proph- 
ecy of the man who was even then developing. 
No ordinary boy would have been conscious of 
" a sense of pain " at beholding the mutilated 
hazel boughs which he had broken in his search 
for nuts. No ordinary lad of ten would be 
able to hold 

.57 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

" Unconscious intercourse with beauty 
Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
Of waters colored by impending clouds." 

Even at that early age, in the midst of all his 
pleasures he felt 

" Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; — the earth 
And common face of Nature spake to me 
Rememberable things." 

The secret of Wordsworth's power lay in the 
fact that, throughout a long life, nature was to 
him a vital, living Presence — one capable of up- 
lifting mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching 
noble truths, and at the same time providing 
tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy he had 
felt for nature 

" A feeling and a love 
That had no need of a remoter charm." 

But manhood brought a deeper joy. 

" For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime of 
Something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
58 ' 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear — both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being." 

In these noble lines we reach the very summit 
of Wordsworth's intellectual power and poetic 
genius. 

We must now retrace our steps to the village 
and find a carriage to take us on our journey. 
For we are not like our English friends, who are 
good walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pe- 
destrian attainments of our poet, who, De Quincey 
thought, must have traversed a distance of one 
hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hun- 
dred and eighty thousand English miles. So a 
comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirt- 
ing the upper margin of the lake, then winding 
along the river Brathay, pausing for a moment 
to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith 
Force, then on again until Red Bank is reached, 
overlooking the vale of Grasmere. The first 
glimpse of this placid little lake, "with its one 
green island," its shores well fringed with the 
budding foliage of spring, the gently undulating 

.59 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the 
mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of 
the blue sky and fleecy white clouds seemed even 
more beautiful than their original overhead — 
the first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the 
emotions of the most apathetic and stir up a 
poetic feeling in the most unpoetic of natures. 

To a mind like Wordsworth's, such a scene 
was an inspiration^ revelation of Nature's charms 
such as could arouse an almost ecstatic enthu- 
siasm in the heart of one who, all his life, had 
lived amid scenes of beauty and possessed the eyes 
to see them. He came here first " a roving school- 
boy," on a " golden summer holiday," and even 
then said, with a sigh, — 

" What happy fortune were it here to live ! " 

He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would 
ever realize such good fortune, but only 

" A fancy in the heart of what might be 
The lot of others never could be his." 

Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll 
where we were enjoying our first view : ■ — 

" The station whence we looked was soft and green, 
Not giddy, yet aerial, with a depth 
Of vale below, a height of hills above. 
For rest of body perfect was the spot, 
All that luxurious nature could desire ; 
But stirring to the spirit ; who could gaze 
And not feel motions there ? " 
60 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

Many years later, in the summer of 1799, 
Wordsworth and Coleridge were walking together 
over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and 
Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a 
home where they might dwell as neighbors. Since 
receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791 Words- 
worth had wandered about in a somewhat aimless 
way, living for a time in London and in France, 
visiting Germany, and finally attempting to find 
a home in the south of England. A small legacy 
left him in 1795 had given a feeling of independ- 
ence, and his one consuming desire at this time 
was to establish a home where his beloved sister 
Dorothy might be with him and he could devote 
his entire time to poetry. 

A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside 
the village of Grasmere attracted his eye. It had 
been a public-house, and bore the sign "The 
Dove and the Olive Bough." He called it " Dove 
Cottage," and for eight years it became his home. 
We found the custodian, a little old lady, in a 
penny shop across the street, and she was glad to 
show us through the tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. 
The cottage looks best from the little garden in 
the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the 
harsh angles of the eaves and convert even the 
chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled 
mass of foliage covers the small back portico and 
makes a shady nook, where a little bench is in- 
vitingly placed. A few yards up the garden walk, 

61 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and 
Hartley Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, 
where the poet placed " bright gowan and marsh 
marigold " brought from the borders of the lake. 
At the farthest end is the little summer-house, the 
poet's favorite retreat. How well he loved this 
garden is shown in the poem written when he 
left Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802 : — 

" Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair, 
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found." 

Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to 
think of the three interesting personages who had 
made the place their home. Coleridge said, " His 
is the happiest family I ever saw." They had one 
common object — to work together to develop a 
rare poetic gift. They were poor, for Wordsworth 
had only the income of a very small legacy, and 
the public had not yet come to recognize his 
genius; the returns from his literary work were 
therefore extremely meager. They got along with 
frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made 
no pretensions they were never ashamed of their 
poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the cost 
of many little sacrifices were hospitably enter- 
tained. 

Perhaps the world will never know how much 
Wordsworth really owed to the two women of his 
household. They lived together with no sign of 
jealousy or distrust. The husband and brother 

62 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

was the object of their untiring and sympathetic 
devotion. They walked with him, read with him, 
cared for him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have 
been a plain country-woman of simple manners, 
yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which 
made everything in the household go smoothly. 
De Quincey declared that, " without being hand- 
some or even comely," she exercised "all the 
practical fascination of beauty, through the mere 
compensating charms of sweetness all but angelic, 
of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect 
and purity of heart speaking through all her 
looks, acts, and movements." Wordsworth was 
never more sincere than when he sang, — 

" She was a phantom of delight," 

and closed the poem with that splendid tribute 
to a most excellent wife : — 

" A perfect woman, nohly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light." 

He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by 
giving her full credit for the best two lines in 
one of his most beautiful poems, "The Daffo- 
dils":— 

" They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude." 

To the other member of that household, his 
sister Dorothy, Wordsworth gave from early boy- 

63 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

hood the full measure of his affection. She was 
his constant companion in his walks, at all hours 
and in all kinds of weather. She cheerfully per- 
formed the irksome task of writing out his verses 
from dictation. Her observations of nature were 
as keen as his, and the poet was indebted to 
Dorothy's notebook for many a good suggestion. 
He has been most generous in his acknowledg- 
ments of his obligation to her : — 

" She gave me eyes, she gave me ears, 
And humble cares, and delicate fears, 

And love, and thought, and joy." 

In the early days when he was overwhelmed 
with adverse criticism and brought almost to the 
verge of despair, it was Dorothy's helping hand 
that brought him back to his own. 

" She whispered still that brightness would return ; 
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
A poet, made me seek beneath that name, 
And that alone, my office upon earth." 

But it is De Quincey who gives the best state- 
ment of the world's obligation to Dorothy. Said 
he: — 

Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its 
original tendency, too stern, too austere, too much en- 
amored of an ascetic harsh sublimity, she it was — the 
lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan 
and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the 

64 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

dim recesses of German charcoal-burners — that first 
couched his eye to the sense of beauty, humanized him 
by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with her deli- 
cate female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths 
of nature which have since clothed the forest of his 
genius with a foliage corresponding in loveliness and 
beauty to the strength of its boughs and the massive- 
ness of its trunks. 

Nearly all of Wordsworth's best poetry was 
written in this little cottage, or, to speak more 
accurately, it was composed while he was living 
here. For it was never his way to write verses 
while seated at a desk, pen in hand. His study 
was out of doors. He could compose a long poem 
while walking, and remember it all afterward 
when ready to dictate. Thousands of verses, he 
said, were composed on the banks of the brook 
running through Easedale, just north of Gras- 
mere Lake. The tall figure of the poet was a 
familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he 
paced the woods or mountain paths, his head 
bent down, and his lips moving with audible if 
not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors 
has left on record an impression of how he 
seemed when he was " making a poem." 

He would set his head a bit forward, and put his 
hands behind his back. And then he would start in 
bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop ; and then 
he'd set down, and git a bit o' paper out, and write a 
bit. However, his lips were always goan' whoole time 

65 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

he was upon gress 1 walk. He was a kind mon, there's 
no two words about that ; and if any one was sick i' the 
place, he wad be off to see til' 'em. 

In personal appearance — about which, by the 
way, he cared little — he was not unlike the dales- 
men about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked 
strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. 
Carlyle speaks of him as " businesslike, sedately 
confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about 
being courteous ; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh 
as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart 
veteran and on all he said or did." 

On our return from Grasmere we took the road 
along the north shore of Rydal Water — a small 
lake with all the characteristic beauty of this 
fascinating region, and yet not so different from 
hundreds of others that it would ever attract 
more than passing notice. But the name of Rydal 
is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are 
visited by thousands of tourists year after year. 
For fifty years the shores of these two lakes and 
the hills and valleys surrounding them were the 
scenes of Wordsworth's daily walks. As we passed 
we heard the cuckoo — its mysterious sound 
seeming to come across the lake — and as our 
own thoughts were on Wordsworth, " the wan- 
dering Voice " seemed appropriate. If we could 
have heard the skylark at that moment, our sense 
of satisfaction would have been quite complete, 

1 Grass. 
66 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

and no doubt we should have cried out, with the 
poet, — 

" Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind." 

Just north of the eastern end of the lake, be- 
neath the shadow of Nab Scar, is Rydal Mount, 
where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining 
until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increas- 
ing prosperity enabled him to take this far more 
pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a little off 
the main road, and quite out of sight of the 
tourists who pass through in coaches and chars- 
a-bancs. The drivers usually jerk their thumbs 
in the general direction and say, " There is 
Rydal Mount," etc., and the tourists, who have 
seen only a farmhouse — not Wordsworth's — 
are left to imagine that they have seen the house 
of the poet. 

It is an old house, but some recent changes in 
doors and windows give it a more modern aspect. 
The unaltered portion is thickly covered with 
ivy. The ground in front is well planted with a 
profusion of rhododendrons. A very old stone 
stairway descends from the plaza in front of the 
house to a kind of mound or rather a double 
~ 67 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

mound, the smaller resting upon a larger one. 
From this point the house is seen to the best ad- 
vantage. In the opposite direction is a landscape 
of rare natural beauty. Far away in the distance 
lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of 
polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on 
the right Nab Scar stand guard over the valley. 
In the foreground the spire of the little church 
of Rydal peeps out over the trees. 

At the right of the house is a long terrace 
which formed one of Wordsworth's favorite walks, 
where he composed thousands of verses. From 
here one may see both Windermere and Rydal 
Water, with mountains in the distance. Passing 
through the garden we came to a gate leading 
to Dora's Field. Here is the little pool where 
Wordsworth and Dora put the little goldfishes, 
that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is 
the stone which Wordsworth saved from destruc- 
tion by the builders of a stone wall. A little 
flight of stone steps leads down to another boul- 
der containing the following inscription, carved 
by the poet's own hand : — 

Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ's chosen flock 
Shun the broad way too easily explored 
And let thy path be hewn out of the rock 
The living Rock of God's eternal WORD 

1838 

Dora's field is thickly covered in springtime 
with the beautiful golden daffodils, planted by 

68 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating at 
this season than a field of these bright yellow 
flowers. We Americans, who only see them 
planted in gardens, cannot realize what daffodils 
mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit 
England during the early spring. What Words- 
worth called a "crowd" of daffodils, growing 
in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, 
beneath the trees, ten thousand to be seen at a 
glance, all nodding their golden heads beside the 
dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth 
seeing. 

" The waves beside them danced ; but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 
A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company : 
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude : 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils." 

But now the time had come to return to Win- 
dermere, and reluctantly we turned our backs 
upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. 
The day, however, was not yet done, for after 
supper we climbed to the top of Orrest-Head, a 
little hill behind the village. No more charming 

69 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

spot could have been chosen in which to spend 
the closing hours of this peaceful day. Far below 
lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses of 
its long and narrow surface appearing here and 
there, like "burnished mirrors" set by Nature 
for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent 
golden sky. It was " an evening of extraordinary 
splendor," like that one which Wordsworth saw 
from Rydal Mount : — - 

" No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
And solemn harmony pervades 
The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
And penetrates the glades." 

As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the 
village church rang out its chimes, as if to accom- 
pany the inspiring scene with sweet and holy 
music. 

" How pleasant, when the sun declines, to view 
The spacious landscape change in form and hue ! 
Here vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood ; 
Their objects, by the searching beams betrayed, 
Come forth and here retire in purple shade ; 
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, 
Soften their glare before the mellow light." 

The shadows which had been slowly falling 
upon the scene had now so far enveloped the 
mountain-side that the narrow roadways and 
stone fences marking the boundaries of the fields 
were barely visible. Suddenly in the distance we 

70 



WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY 

saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hill- 
side. It darted first in one direction and then 
another, like some frightened being uncertain 
which way to turn. Then a darker speck ap- 
peared, and with rapid movement circled to the 
rear of the whiter one, the latter moving on 
ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second 
white speck appeared in another spot. The black 
speck as quickly moved to the rear of this second 
bit of white, driving it in the same direction as 
the first. The white specks then began to seem 
more numerous. We tried to count — one — two 
— three — ten — a dozen — perhaps even twenty. 
There was but one black speck, and he seemed to 
be the master of all the others, for, darting here 
and there after the stragglers, he kept them all 
together. He drove them along the narrow road. 
Then, coming to an opening in the fence, he 
hurried along to the front of the procession; 
then, facing about, deftly turned the whole flock 
through the gate into a large field. Through this 
pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he 
marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and for- 
wards, allowing none to fall behind nor to stray 
away from the proper path, finally bringing them 
up in a compact body to another opening in the 
opposite end of the field. On he went, driving 
his small battalion along the road, then at right 
angles into another road, until the whole flock 
of sheep and the little black dog who commanded 

71 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

them disappeared for the night among the out- 
buildings of a far distant farm. 

The twilight had almost gone, and in the 
growing darkness we retraced our steps to the 
village, well content that, through communion 
with the Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence 
of that " mighty Being " who to him was the 
great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own 
love of nature had been reawakened, and our 
time well spent on this peaceful, never-to-be-for- 
gotten day at Windermere. 



IV 
FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 



IV 

FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

" Roslin's towers and braes are bonnie — 
Craigs and -water ! woods and glen ! 
Roslin's banks ! unpeered by ony, . 
Save the Muse's Hawthornden." 

THE vale of the Esk is unrivaled, even in 
Scotland, for beauty and romantic interest. 
From its source to where it enters the Firth of 
Forth, the little river winds its way past ancient 
castles with their romantic legends, famed in 
poetry and song, and the picturesque homes of 
barons and lairds, poets and philosophers, form- 
ing as it goes, with rocks and cliffs, tall trees and 
overhanging vines, a bewildering succession of 
beautiful scenes. 

It was to to this charming valley that Walter 
Scott came, with his young wife, in the first year 
of their wedded life. A young man of imagina- 
tive and romantic temperament, though as yet 
unknown to fame, he found the place an inspira- 
tion and delight. A pretty little cottage, with 
thatched roof, and a garden commanding a beau- 
tiful view, made the home where many happy 
summers were spent. This was at Lasswade, a 
village which took its striking name from the 
fact — let us hope it was a fact — that here a 

75 



THE LURE OP THE CAMERA 

sturdy lass was wont to wade the stream, carry- 
ing travelers on her back, — a ferry service suf- 
ficiently romantic to make up for its uncertainty. 
Lockhart tells us that "it was amidst these 
delicious solitudes " that Walter Scott " laid the 
imperishable foundation of all his fame. It was 
here that when his warm heart was beating with 
young and happy love, and his whole mind and 
spirit were nerved by new motives for exertion 
— it was here that in the ripened glow of man- 
hood he seems to have first felt something of his 
real strength, and poured himself out in those 
splendid original ballads which were at once to 
fix his name." 

" Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet ! 
By Esk's fair streams that run, 
O'er airy steep through copsewood deep, 
Impervious to the sun. 

Who knows not Melville's heechy grove 

And Roslin's rocky glen, 
Dalkeith, which all tha virtues love, 

And classic Hawthornden ? " 

The visitor who would see "Roslin's rocky 
glen" may take a coach in Edinburgh and soon 
reach the spot after a pleasant drive over a well- 
kept road. But if he would see " classic Haw- 
thornden " in the same day, he must go there 
first. For the gate which separates the two 
opens out from Hawthornden and the traveler 
cannot pass in the opposite direction. We there- 

76 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

fore took the train from Edinburgh, and after 
half an hour alighted at a little station, from 
which we walked a few hundred yards along a 
quiet country road, until we reached a lodge 
marking the entrance to a large estate. Enter- 
ing here, a few steps brought us to the house of 
the gardener, who first conducted us to the place 
that interests him the most — a large and well- 
kept garden, full of fruits and vegetables, beau- 
tiful flowers and well-trained vines. His pride 
satisfied by our sincere admiration of his handi- 
work, our guide was ready to reveal to us the 
glory of Hawthornden, and conducted us to the 
edge of a precipice known as John Knox's Pul- 
pit. In front is a deep ravine of stupendous 
rocks partly bare and partly covered with bushes 
and pendent creepers. The tall trees on the 
border, the wooded hill in the distance, and the 
grand sweep of the river far below, form a 
scene of majestic grandeur as nearly perfect as 
one could wish. To the left, on the very edge of a 
perpendicular rock, is a strong, well-built man- 
sion, so situated that the windows of its prin- 
cipal rooms command a view of the wondrous 
vale. On the other side of the house are the 
ivy-covered ruins of an older castle, dating back 
many centuries. 

Since the middle of the sixteenth century, 
Hawthornden has been the home of a family of 
Drummonds — a famous Scottish name. William 
""77 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Drummond, the most distinguished of them all, 
whose name is inseparably associated with the 
place, was born in 1585. His father was a gen- 
tleman-usher at the court of King James VI, and 
through his association with the Scottish royalty 
had acquired the Hawthornden property. The boy 
grew up amid such surroundings, was educated 
at the University of Edinburgh, and traveled on 
the Continent for three years before settling down 
to his life-work, which he then thought would 
be the practice of law. But scarcely had he re- 
turned to Edinburgh for this purpose, when his 
father died, and young Drummond, at the age 
of twenty-four, found himself master of Haw- 
thornden with ample means at his command. All 
thought of the law was abandoned forthwith. 
The quiet of Hawthornden and the beauty of its 
natural scenery fitted his temperament exactly. 
He had already acquired a scholar's tastes, had 
read extensively, and possessed a large library in 
which the Latin classics predominated, though 
there were many books in Greek, Hebrew, Ital- 
ian, Spanish, French, and English. He retired to 
his delightful home to live among his books, and 
if he found that such surroundings became a tacit 
invitation from the Muses to keep them com- 
pany, who could wonder? "Content with my 
books and the use of my eyes," he said, "I 
learnt even from my boyhood to live beneath my 
fortune ; and, dwelling by myself as much as I 

78 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

can, I neither sigh for nor seek aught that is out- 
side me." 

It has been said that Drummond's three stars 
were Philosophy, Friendship, and Love. Some 
three or four years after the poet began his con- 
tented life at Hawthornden, the latter star began 
to shine so brightly as to eclipse the other two. 
In 1614 he met an attractive girl of seventeen or 
eighteen, the daughter of Alexander Cunning- 
ham, of Barns, a country-seat on a little stream 
known as the Ore, in Fifeshire, on the opposite 
side of the Firth of Forth. His poems began at 
once to reveal the extent to which the loveli- 
ness of the fair Euphame had taken possession 
of him : — 

" Vaunt not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights, 

Which, though most bright, yet see not when they shine, 

And shining cannot show their beams divine 

Both in one place, but part by days and nights ; 

Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine, 

Held only dear because hid from our sights, 

Your pure and burnished gold your diamonds fine, 

Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights ; 

Nor, Seas, of those dear wares are in you found ; 

Vaunt not rich pearl, red coral, which do stir 

A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground. 

Those all more fair are to be had in her : 

Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold, 

Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair, are to behold." 

On seeing her in a boat on the Forth he de- 
clared her perfection : — 
"79 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

" Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain ; 
Cut your white locks, and on your foaming face 
Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace 
The boat that earth's perfections doth contain." 

The river Ore, on the banks of which he first 
met his lady-love, became to Drummond the great- 
est river in the world. In one sonnet he com- 
pares the tiny stream with every famous river 
from the Arno to the Nile ; and finds that none 
of them 

" Have ever had so rare a cause of praise." 

Unfortunately, his happiness was of brief du- 
ration, for on the very eve of the marriage, the 
young lady died. Drummond's grief was intense. 
One can almost imagine him mournfully gazing 
down the beautiful glen, which she might have 
enjoyed with him, and exclaiming — 

" Trees, happier far than I, 
That have the grace to heave your heads so high, 
And overlook those plains ; 
Grow till your branches kiss that lofty sky 
Which her sweet self contains. 
Then make her know my endless love and pains 
And how those tears, which from mine eyes do fall 
Helpt you to rise so tall. 
Tell her, as once I for her sake loved breath 
So, for her sake, I now court lingering death." 

For some years after her death, Euphame was 
to Drummond what Beatrice was to Dante — the 
inspirer of all that was good in him. Later in life 

80 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN ,, 

he married Elizabeth Logan, a lady who was 
said to resemble Euphame Cunningham, and she 
became the mother of his five sons and four 
daughters. 

In front of the mansion of Hawthornden is a 
venerable sycamore, said to be five hundred years 
old. In the month of January, 1619, according 
to a favorite and oft-told story, Drummond was 
sitting beneath this tree, when he saw and recog- 
nized the huge form of Ben Jonson, as that rol- 
licking hero sauntered toward him along the pri- 
vate road. Jonson had walked all the way from 
London to see what could be seen in Scotland, 
and one of the attractions had been an invitation 
from Drummond, who was now beginning to be 
known in England, to spend two or three weeks 
at his home. As he approached, Drummond arose 
and greeted him heartily, saying, — 

" Welcome, welcome, royal Ben ! " 

To which Jonson quickly replied — 

" Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden ! " 

Upon which they both laughed and felt well 
acquainted at once. 

The contrast between these two men, as they 
stood under the old sycamore, must have been 
strongly marked. Drummond, quiet, reserved, 
and gentle in manner — Jonson, boisterous and 
offensively vulgar : Drummond, well dressed and 
refined in appearance — Jonson, fat, coarse, 

81 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

and slovenly ; Drummond, a country gentleman, 
accustomed to live well, but always within his 
means, caring little for society, a man of correct 
habits and strict piety, and later in life a loving 
husband and a tender father — Jonson, the dic- 
tator of literary London, who waved his scepter 
in the " Devil Tavern " in Fleet Street, egotisti- 
cal and quarrelsome, self-assertive, a bully in dis- 
position, his life a perpetual round of dissipation 
and debt, his means of livelihood dependent on 
luck or favor, and his greatest enjoyment center- 
ing in association with those who, like himself, 
were most at home in the theaters and taverns 
of the great bustling city. 

Yet both were poets and men of genius, though 
in different ways. In spite of his peculiarities, 
Drummond found " rare Ben Jonson " a most 
interesting companion. He kept a close record of 
the conversations which passed between them, 
and might well be called the father of modern 
interviewing. But unlike the interviewer of to- 
day, Drummond did not rush to the nearest tele- 
graph station to get his story " on the wire " and 
" scoop " his contemporaries. There were no tele- 
graphs nor newspapers to call for such effort, and 
Drummond had too much respect for the courtesy 
due a guest to think of publishing their private 
talks. But a portion of the material was pub- 
lished in 1711, long after Drummond's death, 
and probably the whole of it in 1832. These 

82 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

conversations with one who knew intimately most 
of the literary leaders of his time have proved in- 
valuable. They contain Ben's opinions of nearly 
everybody — Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Lei- 
cester, King James, Spenser, Raleigh, Shake- 
speare, Bacon, Drayton, Beaumont, Chapman, 
Fletcher, and many other contemporaries. Most 
of all they contain his opinion of himself and his 
writings, which needless to say is quite exalted. 

With no thought of his notes being published, 
Drummond allowed himself perfect frankness in 
writing about his guest. His summary of the im- 
pression made by Ben's visit is as follows : — 

He is a great lover and praiser of himself ; a con- 
temner and scorner of others ; given rather to lose a 
friend than a jest ; jealous of every word and action 
of those about him (especially after drink, which is 
one of the elements in which he liveth) ; a dissembler 
of ill parts which reign in him, a bragger of some good 
that he wanteth ; thinketh nothing well but what either 
he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath 
said or done : he is passionately kind and angry ; care- 
less either to gain or keep ; vindictive, but, if he be 
well answered, at himself. For any religion, as being 
versed in both. Interpreted best sayings and deeds 
often to the worst. Oppressed with phantasy which 
hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in 
many poets. . . . He was in his personal character 
the very reverse of Shakespeare, as surly, ill-natured, 
proud and disagreeable as Shakespeare, with ten times 
his merit, was gentle, good-natured, easy, and amiable. 

83 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Jonson expressed with equal frankness his opin- 
ion of Drummond, to whom he said that he " was 
too good and simple, and that oft a man's modesty 
made a fool of his wit." 

Drummond as a poet was classed by Robert 
Southey and Thomas Campbell in the highest 
rank of the British poets who appeared before 
Milton. His sonnets, which are remarkable for 
their exquisite delicacy and tenderness, won for 
him the title of " the Scottish Petrarch." It has 
been said that they come as near to perfection as 
any others of this kind of writing and that as a 
sonneteer Drummond is surpassed only by Shake- 
speare, Milton, and Wordsworth among the poets 
who have written in English. 

Before taking leave of the Scottish poet and 
his picturesque home, we paused for a few min- 
utes to visit the wondrous caverns, cut out of the 
solid rock upon which the house is built. Anti- 
quarians have insisted that these caves date back 
to the time of the Picts, at least as far as the 
ninth or tenth century. 

This, too, was the popular understanding be- 
fore the scientists offered their opinion. In a 
curious old volume, published in 1753, 1 we are 
told: — 

Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted 

Caverns of Hawthorn-Den, by Dr. Stuckely in his 

Itinerarium- Curiosa, said to have been the King of 

1 Maitland's History of Scotland. 

84 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

Pictlands Castle or Palace ; which nothing can shew 
the Doctor's Credulity more than by suffering himself 
to be imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who 
in all things they cannot account for, are ascribed to 
the Picts, without the least Foundation. For those 
caves, instead of having been a Castle or Palace, I 
take them either to have been a Receptacle for Rob- 
bers, or Places to secure the People and their Effects 
in, during the destructive Wars between the Picts and 
English, and Scots and English. 

During the contests between Bruce and Baliol 
for the Scottish crown, these caves became a place 
of refuge for Bruce and his friends, and one 
of the rooms is still pointed out as Bruce's bed- 
chamber. 

" Here, too, are labyrinthine paths 
To caverns dark and low, 
Wherein they say King Robert Bruce 
Found refuge from his foe." 

In the walls are many square holes, from twelve 
to eighteen inches deep, supposed to have been 
used as cupboards. On a rough table near one 
of the openings is a rude and very much dam- 
aged desk, said to have been the property of 
John Knox. 

Leaving these gloomy resorts of ancient he- 
roes — perhaps of ancient robbers — we sought a 
brighter and more cheerful scene. Descending 
the path we reached a bridge over the Esk on 
which is a gate that permitted us to leave Haw- 
thornden, although it does not allow wanderers 

85 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

on the other side to enter. The bridge gave a 
fine opportunity for a farewell view of the grand 
old mansion, high in the air at the top of the 
cliff, which we were now viewing from below. 

A delightful stroll along the left bank of the 
stream for about two miles brought us to Roslin 
Castle, situated on a rocky promontory high above 
the river. At the point of the peninsula the river 
is narrowed by a large mass of reddish sandstone 
over which it falls. When flooded this becomes a 
beautiful cascade, — whence the name, " Ross," 
a Gaelic word meaning promontory or jutting 
rock, and "Lyn," a waterfall, — -the "Rock of 
the Waterfall." The Esk, where it forms the cas- 
cade, is still called " the Lynn." The view from 
the promontory is one of the most delightful to 
be imagined. The banks are precipitous and cov- 
ered with a luxurious growth of natural wood. 
The vale seems to be crowded with every possible 
combination of trees and cliffs, foliage and spark- 
ling stream, that nature can put together to form 
a region of romantic suggestion. 

Little now remains of the ancient castle of 
Roslin, which was formerly two hundred feet 
long and ninety feet wide. A few ivy-covered 
walls and towers may still be seen, in the midst 
of which is a more modern dwelling rebuilt in 
1653. The ancient foundation walls, nine feet 
thick, still visible below the surface, and the al- 
most inaccessible location of the castle tell the 

86 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

story of its original purpose. A huge kitchen, 
with the fireplace alone occupying as much space 
as the entire kitchen of one of our modern houses, 
suggests the lavish scale upon which the estab- 
lishment was once conducted. 

The castle was built by a family of St. Clairs, 
whose ancestor, Waldernus de St. Clair, came over 
with the Conqueror. William St. Clair, Baron of 
Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Prince of the Ork- 
neys, who flourished in the middle of the fifteenth 
century, was one of the most famous of these 
barons. He lived in the magnificence of royal 
state. 

He kept a great court and was royally served at his 
own table in vessels of gold and silver. . . . He had 
his halls and other apartments richly adorned with 
embroidered hangings. His princess, Elizabeth Doug- 
las, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof 
fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in 
velvet and silks, with their chains of gold, and other 
ornaments ; and was attended by two hundred riding 
gentlemen in all her journeys ; and if it happened to 
be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodg- 
ings were at the f oot of the Black Friar's Wynd, eighty 
lighted torches were carried before her. 1 

The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 
and badly damaged, and was leveled to the ground 
by English forces under the Earl of Hertford, in 

1 From an old manuscript, in the Advocates' Library, collec- 
tion of Richard Augustine Hay. 

87 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII 
to seek to enforce the marriage of his son Edward 
to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter of 
James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during 
Cromwell's campaign in Scotland, by General 
Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the 
hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688. 

It was William St. Clair, the feudal baron above 
referred to, who built the exquisitely beautiful 
chapel which stands not far from the castle. The 
same ancient manuscript, previously quoted, in- 
forms us that 

His age creeping on him made him consider how he 
had spent his time past, and how to spend that which 
was to come. Therefore to the end he might not seem 
altogether unthankfull to God for the benefices re- 
ceaved from Him, it came in his minde to build a house 
for God's service of most curious work, the which, 
that it might be done with greater glory and splen- 
dour he caused artificers to be brought from other re- 
gions and forraigne kingdoms and caused dayly to be 
abundance of all kinde of workemen present, etc., etc. 

The foundation of Roslin Chapel was laid in 
1446. It was originally intended to be a cruci- 
form structure with a high central tower. The 
existing chapel is, therefore, really only a small 
part of what the church was meant to be. Its 
style is called " florid Gothic," but this is proba- 
bly for want of a better name. There is no other 
piece of architecture like it in the world. It is a 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

medley of all architectures, the Egyptian, Grecian, 
Roman, and Saracenic being intermingled with 
all kinds of decorations and designs, some exquis- 
itely beautiful and others quaint and even gro- 
tesque. There are thirteen different varieties of 
the arch. The owner, who possessed great wealth, 
desired novelty. He secured it by engaging archi- 
tects and builders from all parts of , Europe. The 
most beautiful feature of the interior is known as 
the " 'Prentice's Pillar." It is a column with 
richly carved spiral wreaths of beautiful foliage 
twined about from floor to ceiling. It is said that 
the master-builder, when he came to erect this 
column, found himself unable to carry out the 
design, and traveled to Rome to see a column of 
similar description there. When he returned he 
found that his apprentice had studied the plans 
in his absence and with greater genius than his 
own, had overcome the difficulties and fashioned 
a pillar more beautiful than any ever before 
dreamed of. The master, stung with jealous rage, 
struck the apprentice with his mallet, killing him 
instantly. This, at least, is the accepted legend. 
The barons of Roslin were buried beneath the 
chapel side by side, encased in their full suits of 
armor. There was a curious superstition that when 
one of the family died, the chapel was enveloped 
in flames, but not consumed. This and the " un- 
coffined chiefs " are referred to by Scott in " The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel." The lady is lost in 

89 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

the storm while crossing the Firth on her way to 
Roslin : — 

" O'er Roslin all that dreary night 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
'T was broader than the watch-fire light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

" It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copsewood glen ; 
'T was seen from Breyden's groves of oak, 
And seen from caverned Hawthornden. 

" Seemed all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, 
Each baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

" Seemed all on fire within, around, 
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 

" Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
So still they blaze when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

" There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle." 

Commemorated by a tablet in the chapel is 
another interesting legend. Robert Bruce, King 
of Scotland, in following the chase on Pentland 
Hills near Roslin, had often started "a white 



HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN 

faunch deer " which invariably escaped from his 
hounds. In his vexation he asked his nobles 
whether any of them had hounds which would 
likely be more successful. All hesitated for fear 
that the mere suggestion of possessing dogs su- 
perior to those of the king might be an offense. 
But Sir William St. Clair (one of the predeces- 
sors of the builder of the chapel) boldly and un- 
ceremoniously came forward and said he would 
wager his head that his two favorite dogs Hold 
and Help would kill the deer before it could 
cross the March burn. The king promptly ac- 
cepted the rash wager, and betted the forest of 
Pentland Moor. 

The hunters reach the heathern steeps and Sir Wil- 
liam, posting himself in the best situation for slipping 
his dogs, prayed devoutly to Christ, the Virgin Mary, 
and St. Katherine. The deer is started, the hounds 
are slipped ; when Sir William spurs his gallant steed 
and cheers the dogs. The deer reaches the middle of 
the March-burn brook, the hounds are still in the 
rear, and our hero's life is at its crisis. An awful mo- 
ment ; the hunter threw himself from his horse in de- 
spair and Fate seemed to sport with his feelings. At 
the critical moment Hold fastened on the game, and 
Help coming up, turned the deer back and killed it 
close by Sir William's side. The generous monarch 
embraced the knight and bestowed on him the lands 
of Kirktown, Logan House, Earnsham, etc., in free 
forestrie. 1 

1 Britton's Architectural Antiquities. 
91 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

The grateful Sir William erected a chapel to 
St. Katherine, at the spot, to commemorate the 
saint's intervention. 

One more tale of Roslin remains to be told. 
Not far away, on Roslin Moor, occurred one of 
the famous battles of Scottish history. There 
were really three battles, all fought in one day, 
the 24th of February, 1303. Three divisions of 
the English army, consisting of thirty thousand 
men, were successively attacked by the valiant 
Scots with only ten thousand men, who, after 
overpowering the first division, attacked the sec- 
ond, and then the third, defeating all three in 
the same day. 

And so, with history and legend, poetry and 
romance, real life and fiction, the glory of na- 
ture's art and the achievements of human handi- 
craft all happily intermingled in our thought 
and blended into one pleasant memory, we brought 
to its close our walk through the valley of the 
Esk, from Hawthornden to Roslin Glen. 



V 
THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 

I 
MRS. WARD AND HER WORK 

WHY does any one stay in England who 
can make the trip to Paradise ? ' said the 
duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner 
of the boat and trailed her fingers in the waters 
of Como." 

These words from "Lady Rose's Daughter" 
came to mind as we glided swiftly in a little 
motor-boat, late in the afternoon of a perfect 
April day, over the smooth waters of Como and 
into the arm of the lake known as Lecco, where 
we were to enjoy our cup of tea in a little latteria 
high up on a rocky crag. In the stern sat Mrs. 
Ward, looking the picture of contentment, a light 
summer hat with simple trimmings giving an al- 
most girlish aspect to a face in which strong 
intellectuality and depth of moral purpose were 
clearly the predominating features. A day's work 
done, — for Mrs. Ward goes to Como for work, not 
play, — this little trip across the lake was one of 
her favorite recreations, in which, for the time, 
we were hospitably permitted to share. About 

95 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

us were the scenes " enchanted, incomparable," 
which are best described in the words of Mrs, 
Ward herself : — 

When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago 
di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the 
beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate delights 
of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours 
them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around 
the shores of other lakes — Maggiore, Lugano, Garda 
— blue mountains rise and the vineyards spread their 
green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only Como 
can show in unmatched union a main composition, in- 
comparably grand and harmonious, combined with 
every jeweled or glowing or exquisite detail. Nowhere 
do the mountains lean towards each other in such an 
ordered splendor as that which bends around the 
northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed 
masses rise behind each other, to right and left of a 
blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble than 
those kept by the mountains of Leeco Lake as they 
marshal themselves on either hand, along the ap- 
proaches to Lombardy and Venetia. 

. . . And within this divine framework, between 
the glistening snows which still, in April, crown and 
glorify the heights, and those reflections of them 
which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake, 
there 's not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, 
not a slope of forest, where the spring is not at work, 
dyeing the turf with gentians, starring it with narcis- 
suses, or drawing across it the first golden network of 
the chestnut leaves ; where the mere emerald of the 
grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very 
springs of being ; where the peach -blossom and the 

96 




MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

wild cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving 
patterns on the blue which ravish the very heart out 
of your breast. And already the roses are beginning 
to pour over the wall ; the wistaria is climbing up the 
cypresses ; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all 
the gardens ; while in the glassy bays that run up into 
the hills the primrose banks still keep their sweet 
austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just 
banished winter is still sharp and new. - 

It was in a garden such as this, with a wild 
cherry tree and olives " perpetually weaving pat- 
terns " against the blue sky, that we first met 
Mrs. Ward. It was a balmy April morning. The 
scent of spring was in the air, and the birds were 
adding their melody to the beauty of the land- 
scape. The villa stands well up the slope of a high 
hill and is reached by a winding path through 
fragrant trees. A little below the level of the 
house is a shady nook, well sheltered from the 
sun, from which the high mountains of the north 
and the blue glimmer of the lake beneath can be 
plainly seen. Here we were greeted by the novelist 
in terms of cordiality that instantly made us " feel 
at home." There was no posing, none of that 
condescension which some writers had led us to 
expect. We were simply welcomed as friends, 
with a perfect hospitality that seemed to be born 
of the tranquil beauty all about us. 

Mrs. Ward is a woman of rather more than 
medium height and of erect and graceful car- 

97 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

riage. Her manner is dignified, but it is the dig- 
nity of one properly conscious of her own strength 
and is never repellent. One cannot help feeling 
that he is in the presence of a distinguished per- 
son — one who has justly earned a world-wide 
fame — and yet one in whom the attributes of 
true womanliness reign supreme. You are proud 
of the honor of her friendship, and yet you can- 
not help thinking what an excellent neighbor she 
would be. 

The instinct which impels Mrs. Ward to seek 
such scenes of beauty as Lake Como in which to 
do her writing came to her naturally, for her 
childhood was spent in one of the most beautiful 
parts of all England, Westmoreland, the home of 
Wordsworth and of Ruskin. Here " Arnold of 
Rugby " made his home in a charmingly situated 
cottage known as Fox How. " Fox," in the lan- 
guage of Westmoreland, means " fairy," and 
" how" is " hill." A "fairy hill" indeed it must 
have seemed to Dr. Arnold's little granddaughter 
Mary, when as a child of five she was brought 
there by her father from far-away Tasmania, 
where she was born. The English Lakes are 
famous for their beauty, but there is no more 
delightful spot in all the region than the valley 
" under Loughrigg," and no lovelier river than the 
Rothay, rippling over the smooth pebbles from 
Wordsworth's beloved Rydal Water down to the 
more pretentious grandeur of Lake Windermere. 

98 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

The impressions of her childhood created in the 
future novelist an intense love of these streams 
and mountains, which only increased with her 
absence and the enlargement of her field of 
vision. When she was the mother of a little girl 
of seven and a boy of four, she determined to 
give to them the same impressions which had de- 
lighted her own childhood, and the family made 
an ever-memorable visit from Oxford, where they 
were then living, to the vicinity of Fox How — 
a visit which all children may enjoy who will read 
the pretty little story of "Milly and Oily." 

Mary Augusta Arnold was born in Tasmania 
on the 11th of June, 1851. Her father, Thomas 
Arnold, second son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby and 
brother of Matthew Arnold, was at that time In- 
spector of Schools in the far-away island. He had 
married the granddaughter of Colonel Sorell, a 
former Governor of Tasmania, and no doubt in- 
tended to remain there permanently. But, be- 
coming interested, even at that distance, in the 
so-called " Oxford Movement " of the middle of 
the last century, he determined to return to Eng- 
land, where he followed Newman and others into 
the Roman Catholic Church, accepting a pro- 
fessorship of English Literature in the Catholic 
University of Dublin. His daughter Mary, the 
eldest of six, was sent to Ambleside to be edu- 
cated. In 1865, having renounced the Catholic 
faith, Mr. Arnold took up his residence at 

99 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Oxford. Here his eldest daughter, at the age of 
fourteen, came under the influence of the friend- 
ships and associations which were to have so po- 
tent an influence upon her future career. The 
most important of these were Professor Mark 
Pattison and the Bodleian Library. Professor 
Pattison strongly urged her to specialize her 
studies, and acting upon his suggestion, she 
learned the Spanish language and began a course 
of study in Spanish literature and history, in 
which she found the facilities of the Bodleian 
Library invaluable. In 1872 she became the wife 
of Mr. Thomas Humphry Ward, then a fellow 
and tutor in Brasenose College. During the en- 
suing ten or eleven years Mrs. Ward assisted her 
husband in his literary work and contributed 
largely to the " Pall Mall Gazette," the "Saturday 
Review," the "Academy," and other magazines, 
besides publishing the little book for children 
already referred to, " Milly and Oily." 

In 1881 Mr. Ward accepted a position on the 
staff of the " Times," and the family removed to 
London. For several years they occupied a house 
in Russell Square, which Mrs. Ward still regards 
with fond memories, later removing to their pres- 
ent town house, No. 25 Grosvenor Place. But 
Mrs. Ward's love of nature is too intense for an 
uninterrupted residence in London, and she pos- 
sesses an ideal country home some thirty miles 
away, near the little village of Aldbury, known 

100 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

as " Stocks." This large and beautiful estate is 
ancient enough to be mentioned in " Domesday 
Book." Its name does not come from the old 
•" stocks " used as an instrument of punishment, 
which may still be seen in the village, although 
this is a common supposition. "Stocks" is de- 
rived from the German " stock," meaning stick 
or tree, and refers to the magnificent grove by 
which the house is surrounded. 

Before Stocks became a possibility, Mrs. Ward 
usually managed to choose a summer home in the 
country, and these choices are most interestingly 
reflected in her novels. During the Oxford resi- 
dence Surrey was a favorite resort for seven years, 
its atmosphere entering largely into the com- 
position of "Miss Bretherton" and "Robert 
Elsmere." Two nights spent at a farm on the 
Kinderscout gave ample material for the open- 
ing chapter of the "History of David Grieve." 
The lease for a season of Hampden House, in 
Buckinghamshire, gave the original for Mellor 
Park in " Marcella," and a visit near Crewe fixed 
the scenes of " Sir George Tressady." " Helbeck 
of Bannisdale " was the result of a summer spent 
in the delightful home of Captain Bagot, of Lev- 
ens Hall, near Kendal. Summers in Italy and 
Switzerland gave most charming scenery for 
" Lady Rose's Daughter " and " Eleanor," and, 
to a less degree, " The Marriage of William 
Ashe." The cottage of her youngest daughter, 

101 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Dorothy, near the Langdale Pikes, suggested the 
home of Fenwick, while Diana Mallory found 
her home in Stocks itself. Thus the creatures of 
Mrs. Ward's fancy have simply lived in the places 
which she knew the best. They are all scenes of 
beauty, for Mrs. Ward loves the beautiful in 
nature, and has spent her life where this yearn- 
ing could be most fully gratified. 

But if Mrs. Ward seeks the country as the 
best place for literary work, she is not idle when 
in the city. If any one imagines her to be merely 
a society woman with a genius for literature, he 
is making a serious mistake. Outside of society 
and literature she is a busy woman, bent on the 
accomplishment of a task which few would have 
the courage to assume. Her ideal is best expressed 
in the closing words of "Robert Elsmere" : — 

The New Brotherhood still exists, and grows. There 
are many who imagined that, as it had been raised 
out of the earth by Elsmere's genius, so it would sink 
with him. Not so ! He would have fought the struggle 
to victory with surpassing force, with a brilliancy and 
rapidity none after him could rival. But the struggle 
was not his. His effort was but a fraction of the effort 
of the race. In that effort, and in the Divine force 
behind it, is our trust, as was his. 

These words, written nearly a quarter of a 
century ago, were truly prophetic. For Mrs. 
Ward not only possesses the kind of genius from 
which an Elsmere could be created, but is gifted 

102 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

with a rare capacity for business, which has en- 
abled her to crystallize the ideals o£ her work of 
fiction into a substantial and permanent institu- 
tion for practical benevolence. She was already 
interested in "settlement" work among the poor 
of London during the writing of the novel. But 
in 1891, after the storm of criticism which the 
book aroused had subsided, its suggestions be- 
gan to take definite shape in the organization 
of the Passmore Edwards Settlement, in Uni- 
versity Hall, in Gordon Square. In 1898 the 
work was moved to its present quarters in Tavi- 
stock Place, where, under the leadership of Mrs. 
Ward and through the generosity of herself and 
the friends whom she had been able to influ- 
ence, a large and substantial building was erected. 
Directly in the rear of the building is a large 
garden owned by the Duke of Bedford, who 
recently placed it at the disposal of the Settle- 
ment, keeping it in order at his own expense, re- 
sowing the grass every year to keep it fresh and 
thick. Here in the vacation season one thousand 
children daily enjoy the luxury of sitting and 
walking on the grass, and that in the heart of 
central London. The garden occupies the site 
of Dickens's Tavistock House. One cannot help 
imagining the author of Little Nell sitting there 
in spirit while troops of happy London children 
pass in review. The land here placed entirely 
at the disposal of Mrs. Ward and the warden 

103 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

of the Settlement is worth not less than half a 
million dollars. Twenty-seven teachers, under 
the direction of a competent supervisor, give in- 
struction in organized out-of-door exercises. 

This was the first of the recreation schools or 
play centers. Handwork occupations, such as 
cooking — both for girls and boys — sewing, knit- 
ting, basket-work, carpentering, cobbling, clay 
modeling, painting and drawing ; dancing com- 
bined with old English songs and nursery rhymes ; 
musical drill and gymnastics; quiet games and 
singing games; acting; and a children's library 
of story-books and picture-books — these are the 
provisions which have been made for the fortu- 
nate children of that locality. 

The entire purpose of such play centers is to 
rescue the children of the poor from the demor- 
alization that results from being turned out to 
play after school hours in the streets and alley- 
ways, where they are subjected to every kind of 
vile association and influence. The effects already 
noted by those in charge of the centers are im- 
provement in manners, in thoughtf ulness for the 
little ones, and in unselfishness ; increase in re- 
gard for truth and honesty ; the development of 
the instinct in all children to " make something" ; 
the teaching that it is more enjoyable to play to- 
gether in harmony than when obedience to a 
leader is refused. The success of this first experi- 
ment was so marked that gradually other centers 

104 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

were started in different parts of London. Liberal 
sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. 
Ward, who enlisted the support of the County 
Council to the extent of securing facilities in the 
public school buildings. The work has so far pro- 
gressed that the total attendance last year 1 reached 
an aggregate of six hundred thousand. It is diffi- 
cult to estimate from these figures how many 
children were affected, but, taking — at a guess 
— fifty times as the average attendance of each, 
this would mean that the lives of at least twelve 
thousand poor children were directly lifted up 
by this practical charity, and that as many more 
hard-working and anxious parents were indirectly 
benefited. 

But Mrs. Ward will not be satisfied until the 
entire school population of London has been 
made to feel the influence of these play centers. 
Private beneficence, as she has plainly pointed 
out, can never solve the problem. " Private 
effort," said she in a well-known letter to the 
London "Times," " cannot deal with seven hun- 
dred and fifty thousand children, or even with 
three hundred thousand. If there is a serious 
and urgent need, if both the physique and the 
morale of our town children are largely at stake, 
and if private persons can only touch a fraction 
of the problem, what remains but to appeal to the 
public conscience ? " 

1 1908. 
105 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

This is Mrs. Ward's way of " doing things." 
She does not appeal to public authority to accom- 
plish an ideal without first rinding a way and 
proving that it can be done. But, having clearly 
demonstrated her proposition at private expense, 
she does not rest content with the results so ob- 
tained, but pushes steadily forward toward the 
larger ideal, which can be realized only through 
public support. 

But the recreation school is only a part of the 
work of the Passmore Edwards Settlement. Dur- 
ing the daytime many of the rooms are used by 
the " Cripple Schools." Children who are suffer- 
ing from spinal diseases, heart trouble, and de- 
formities of various kinds which prevent attend- 
ance at the regular schools are daily brought to 
the Settlement in ambulances. Here the little 
ones do all kinds of kindergarten work, while 
the older ones are instructed in drawing, sewing, 
bent-iron work, and other suitable tasks. As an 
outgrowth of this school twenty-three cripple 
schools are now in operation in London. 

But it is in the evening that the Passmore 
Edwards Settlement is seen to best advantage. 
There is a large library containing some three 
thousand volumes, which are kept in active use. 
On Monday nights two tables in this room are 
the centers of busy groups. These represent the 
(i coal club," a businesslike charity of a very 
practical kind. The club buys a large quantity 

106 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

of coal in the summer-time, when it can be ob- 
tained cheapest. As a large consumer, it usually 
gets every possible concession. The members of 
this club can buy the coal in small quantities as 
wanted, or as they are able to pay for it, at any 
time during the year, at the summer price of one 
shilling one and a half pence per hundred weight 
(twenty-seven cents). If bought during the winter 
in the ordinary way, they would have to pay 
perhaps five or six pence more — a very sub- 
stantial saving. Thrift is encouraged by allowing 
members to deposit small sums in the summer to 
apply against their winter purchases. Last year the 
club transacted a business equal to about $4300. 

" The Poor Man's Lawyer " is another prac- 
tical part of the work. Once each week free legal 
advice is given to all who ask it, and considerable 
money has been saved to people who, from ig- 
norance and poverty, might have been imposed 
upon. The " Men's Club," the " Boys' Club," the 
"Factory Girls' Club," and the " Women's Club " 
are all actively engaged in performing the usual 
functions of such organizations. There is a gym- 
nasium where boys and girls, men and women, all 
have their regular turns of systematic instruction. 

An orchestra of a dozen pieces and a choral 
society of forty members, together with a dra- 
matic society, give opportunity for many to take 
part in numerous concerts and entertainments. A 
large hall is the scene nearly every night of some 
107 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

kind of social amusement. The room is decorated 
with many pictures, all reproductions of the best 
works of art, while around the walls are placed 
busts in marble of Emerson, James Martineau, 
Dickens, Matthew Arnold, Benjamin Jowett, and 
Sir William Herschel — the gift of Mr. Passmore 
Edwards. There is a large stage for dramatic per- 
formances, drills, etc., with a piano and a good 
organ. There are tables where the members may 
play cards, smoke, or have light refreshments. 
On Sunday nights there are concerts or lectures. 
The whole atmosphere of the place is attractive 
to the men and women who frequent it. There is 
no obtrusive piety, no patronizing air, nothing to 
offend the pride of the poor man who values his 
self-esteem, yet all the influences of the place are 
elevating. 

The whole spirit of the Settlement is expressed 
in these words, displayed in a framed notice at 
the entrance to the social hall : — 

We believe that many changes in the conditions of 
life and labour are neeeded, and are coming to pass ; 
but we believe also that men, without any change ex- 
cept in themselves and in their feelings towards one 
another, might make this world a better and a happier 
place. 

Therefore, with the same sympathies but different 
experiences of life, we meet to exchange ideas and to 
discuss social questions, in the hope that, as we learn 
to know one another better, a feeling of fellowship 
may arise among us. 

108 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

To these ends we have a Library, Clubs, Lectures, 
Classes, Entertainments, etc., and we endeavour to 
make the Settlement a centre where we may unite our 
several resources in a social and intellectual home. 

In all this work Mrs. Humphry Ward is the 
inspiration, and a moving, active spirit. Her name 
stands next to that of the wealthy Duke of Bed- 
ford as the most liberal contributor. She is the 
Honorable Secretary of the Council, a member 
of the Finance Committee, president of the 
Women's Club, etc. But these are only her 
official positions. Her directing hand is manifest 
in every branch of the work, and, from the war- 
den down to the humblest member of the Girls' 
Club, her name is accorded a respect amounting 
almost to reverence. 

But, as with the play centers, Mrs. Ward is 
not content with the work of this one institution, 
splendid as it is. To her it is only the means of 
ascertaining the way. She feels that she is deal- 
ing with a great problem, and her method is to 
ascertain, first of all, the best solution, and then 
to use her large influence to induce others to 
take up the work. Thus the " New Brotherhood " 
of Robert Elsmere has not only continued to ex- 
ist for a quarter of a century, but has in it the 
elements of growth which will make it a vital 
power in human society long after the real 
Robert Elsmere, in the person of Mrs. Ward, has 
ceased to be the directing force. 

109 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 
II 

THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE 

In seeking to point out the real persons and 
places of Mrs. Ward's novels, it is only fair to 
the author to begin with her own statement as 
to the story-teller's method of procedure : — 

An idea, a situation, is suggested to him by real life, 
he takes traits and peculiarities from this or that per- 
son whom he has known or seen, but that is all. When 
he comes to write . . . the mere necessities of an im- 
aginative effort oblige him to cut himself adrift from 
reality. His characters become to him the creatures of 
a dream, as vivid often as his waking life, but still a 
dream. And the only portraits he is drawing are por- 
traits of phantoms, of which the germs were present 
in reality, but to which he himself has given voice, 
garb, and action. 

It is my purpose to point out some of these 
" germs of reality " in Mrs. Ward's work, rely- 
ing for the essential facts, at least, upon infor- 
mation given me personally by the novelist her- 
self. For Mrs. Ward does not hesitate to admit 
that certain characters were drawn from real life ; 
but she insists upon a proper understanding of 
the exact sense in which this is true. Because 
" Miss Bretherton " was suggested by the career 
of Mary Anderson it does not follow that all that 
is said of the former is true of the latter. There 

110 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

is a vast difference between a " suggestion " and 
a " portrait." The thoughts and feelings or the 
personal characteristics of a certain individual 
may suggest a character who in his physical 
aspects, his environment, and the events of his 
career may be conceived as an individual totally 
different. Mrs. Ward's novels contain no por- 
traits and no history. But they abound in char- 
acters suggested by people whom she has known, 
in incidents and reminiscences of real life, and 
in vivid word-pictures of scenes which she has 
learned to love or of places with which she is 
personally familiar. 

A study of the scenery of these novels properly 
begins in the County of Surrey. About four 
miles southwest of Godalming is Borough Farm, 
an old-fashioned brick house, which we reached 
by a drive over country that seemed in places 
almost like a desert — so wild and forsaken that 
one could scarcely believe it to be within a few 
miles of some of the busiest suburbs of London. 
But it has a splendid beauty of its own. The 
thick gorse with its golden blossoms everywhere 
waves a welcome. There are now and then great 
oaks to greet you, and graceful patches of white 
birch. And everywhere is a delightfully exhila- 
rating sense of freedom and fresh air such as only 
this kind of open country can suggest. Here 
Mrs. Ward lived for seven summers, finding in 
the country round about some of the most inter- 
Ill 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

esting of the scenes of her first novel, "Miss 
Bretherton," and of " Robert Elsmere." 

"Miss Bretherton" was published in 1884. 
Mary Anderson was at that time the reigning 
success on the London stage, while Sarah Bern- 
hardt, in Paris, was startling the world with an 
art of a totally different character. The beauty 
of the young American actress was the one sub- 
ject of conversation. Was it her beauty that at- 
tracted the crowds to the theater, and that alone? 
Was she totally lacking in that consummate art 
which the great Frenchwoman admittedly pos- 
sessed ? These questions suggested to Mrs. Ward 
the theme of her first attempt at fiction. The 
beautiful Miss Bretherton is taken in hand by a 
party of friends representing the highest types 
of culture. In their effort to give her mind and 
body much-needed rest from the exactions of 
London society she is carried away on two not- 
able excursions. The first is to Surrey, the real 
scene of this outing being a place near Borough 
Farm called "Forked Pond," well known to Mrs. 
Ward and her family while residents at the farm . 
The other is to Oxford, where, after admiring the 
colleges, which brought many happy recollec- 
tions to the gentlemen of the party, Miss Breth- 
erton is taken to Nuneham Park, a beautiful place 
on the river where a small rustic bridge enhances 
the romantic character of the surroundings. This, 
of course, was familiar ground to the author, who 

112 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

spent sixteen happy years in that vicinity as a 
resident of Oxford. Through the kindness of 
these friends, and particularly by the influence of 
Kendal, who becomes her lover, Miss Bretherton 
is made to take a new view of her art, and is trans- 
formed into an actress of real dramatic power. 

Although a charming story, "Miss Brether- 
ton " did not prove successful and had little part 
in making the reputation of the novelist, who is 
likely to be known as " the author of i Robert 
Elsmere,' " so long as her fame shall endure. 
For this great book created a sensation through- 
out the English-speaking world when it appeared, 
and aroused controversies which did not subside 
for many years. 

The scenery of " Robert Elsmere " combines 
the Westmoreland which Mrs. Ward learned to 
love in her childhood with the Oxford of her 
girlhood and early married life, and the Surrey 
where so many pleasant summers were spent. 
Not wishing, for fear of recognition, to describe 
the country near Ambleside, with which she was 
most familiar, Mrs. Ward placed the scenes of 
the opening chapters in the neighboring valley 
of Long Sleddale, giving it the name of Long 
Whindale. Whinborough is the city of Kendal, 
and the village of Shanmoor is Kentmere. Bur- 
wood Farm, where the Leyburns lived, is a house 
far up the valley, which still " peeps through the 
trees " at the passer-by just as it did in the days 

113 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

when Robert Elsmere first met the saintly Cath- 
erine there. A few hundred yards down the 
stream is a little stone church across the road 
from a small stone schoolhouse, and next to the 
school a gray stone vicarage, standing high above 
the little river, all three bearing the date 1863. 
At sight of this group of buidings one almost 
expects to catch a glimpse of the well-meaning 
but not over-wise Mrs. Thornburgh, sitting in 
the shade of the vicarage, awaiting the coming 
of old John Backhouse, the carrier, with the 
anxiously expected consignment of "airy and 
appetizing trifles " from the confectioner's. 

At the extreme end of the valley the road ab- 
ruptly comes to an end. A stone bridge leads off 
to the left to a group of three small farms. In 
front no sign of human habitation meets the eye. 
The hills seem to come together, forming a kind 
of bowl, and there is no sound to break the still- 
ness save the ripple of the river. It was to this 
lonely spot that Catherine was in the habit of 
walking, quite alone, to visit the dying Mary 
Backhouse. The house of John and Jim Back- 
house where Mary died may still be seen. It is 
the oldest of the three farms above mentioned. 
A very small cottage, it is wedged between a 
stable on one side and a sort of barn or store- 
house on the other, so that from the road before 
crossing the bridge it seems to be quite preten- 
tious. The house dates back to 1670. 

114 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

Mary Backhouse never existed except in im- 
agination, but Mrs. Ward, upon seeing the pho- 
tograph of the house, exclaimed with much 
satisfaction, " Yes, that is the very house where 
Mary Backhouse died." So real to her are the 
events described in her novels that Mrs. Ward 
frequently refers to the scenes in this way. Be- 
hind the house is a very steep hill,, covered with 
trees and rough stones. It was over this hill 
that Robert and Catherine walked on the night 
of Mary Backhouse's death. Readers of " Robert 
Elsmere " will remember that poor Mary was the 
victim of a strange hallucination. On the night 
of Midsummer Day, one year before, she had 
seen the ghost or " bogle " of " Bleacliff Tarn." 
To see the ghost was terror enough, but to be 
spoken to by it was the sign of death within a 
year. And Mary had both seen and been spoken 
to by the ghost. Her mind, so far as she had one, 
for she was really half-insane, was concentrated 
on the one horrible thought — that on Mid- 
summer Night she must die. The night had 
at last arrived, and Catherine, true to her chari- 
table impulses, was there to comfort the dying 
girl. 

The weather was growing darker and stormier ; 
the wind shook the house in gusts, and the far- 
ther shoulder of High Fell was almost hidden by 
the trailing rain-clouds. But Catherine feared 
nothing when a human soul was in need, and, 

115 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

hoping to pacify the poor woman, volunteered 
to go out to the top of the Fell and over the 
very track of the ghost at the precise hour when 
she was supposed to walk, to prove that there 
was nothing near " but the dear old hills and the 
power of God." As she opened the door of the 
kitchen, Catherine was surprised to find Robert 
Elsmere there, and together they set out, over the 
rough, stony path, facing the wind and rain as 
they climbed the distant fell-side. There Robert 
pleaded his love against Catherine's stern sense 
of duty, and won. 

When Robert and Catherine were married, 
they went to live at the Rectory of Murewell, in 
Surrey. This old house is at Peper Harow, three 
miles west of Godalming and a mile or so from 
Borough Farm. It was leased for one summer 
by Mrs. Ward. A plain, square house of stone, 
much discolored by the weather, it could hardly 
be called attractive in itself. But stepping back 
to the road, with its picturesque stone wall sur- 
mounted by foliage, and viewing the house as 
it appears from there, flanked on the left by a 
fine spreading elm and on the right by a tall, 
pointed fir and a cluster of oaks, with a little 
flower garden under the windows and the grace- 
fully curving walk leading past the door in a 
semicircle stretching from gate to gate, the ugly 
house is transformed into a home of beauty, 
where Robert and Catherine, one can well im- 

116 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

agine, might have been quite happy and con- 
tented with their surroundings. 

In the rear of the house is the garden, fa- 
mous for its phloxes, the scene of many walks 
and family confidences. At the farther end is 
the gate where Langham poured out the story 
of his life in passionate speech, impelled by the 
equally passionate sympathy of , Rose, only to 
recall himself a moment later, "the critic in 
him making the most bitter, remorseless mock of 
all these heroics and despairs the other self had 
been indulging in." 

Only a short walk from the Rectory is the little 
church of Peper Harow, the scene of Robert's 
early clerical labors, and further on is the large 
and beautiful Peper Harow Park, the present 
home of Lord Middleton. This attractive park 
is the original of Squire Wendover's, but the 
house itself is not described. The fine library 
owned by the Squire, which so delighted Robert 
Elsmere with its many rare books, was in reality 
the famous Bodleian Library of Oxford, with 
which the author became familiar very early in 
life. 

Three characters from real life, each a man of 
marked individuality, stand out prominently in 
the pages of "Robert Elsmere." These are Pro- 
fessor Mark Pattison, whose strong personality 
and scholarly attainments suggested Squire Wend- 
over ; Professor Thomas H. Green, the original of 

117 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Mr. Grey ; and the melancholy Swiss philosopher, 
poet, and dreamer Amiel, who was the prototype 
of Langham. 

The theme of the novel is the development 
of Robert Elsmere's character and the gradual 
change of his religious views, brought about 
through many a bitter struggle. In this the prin- 
cipal influence was that of Roger Wendover, a 
typical English squire of large possessions, but, 
in addition, a scholar of the first rank, the pos- 
sessor of a large library filled with rare and im- 
portant volumes of history, philosophy, science, 
and religion, with the contents of which he was 
thoroughly familiar, and an author of two great 
books, one of which had stirred up a tremend- 
ous excitement in the circles of English religious 
thought. 

The Pentateuch, the Prophets, the Gospels, St. 
Paul, Tradition, the Fathers, Protestantism and Jus- 
tification by Faith, the Eighteenth Century, the Broad 
Church Movement, Anglican Theology — the Squire 
had his say about them all. And while the coolness 
and frankness of the method sent a shock of indigna- 
tion and horror through the religious public, the sub- 
tle and caustic style, and the epigrams with which 
the book was strewn, forced both the religious and 
the irreligious public to read, whether they would or 
no. A storm of controversy rose round the volumes, 
and some of the keenest observers of English life had 
said at the time, and maintained since, that the pub- 
lication of the book had made or marked an epoch. 

118 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

Against the influence of such a book, and 
more particularly against a growing intimacy 
with its author, Robert Elsmere felt himself as 
helpless as a child. The squire's talk "was sim- 
ply the outpouring of one of the richest, most 
skeptical, and most highly trained of minds on 
the subject of Christian origins." His two books 
were, he said, merely an interlude, in his life- 
work, which had been devoted to an " exhaust- 
ive examination of human records " in the prep- 
aration of a great History of Testimony which 
had required learning the Oriental languages 
and sifting and comparing the entire mass of 
existing records of classical antiquity — India, 
Persia, Egypt, and Judea — down to the Renais- 
sance. 

Reference has already been made to the influ- 
ence of Professor Mark Pattison upon the early 
life of Mrs. Ward. To create the Squire she had 
only to imagine the house in the great park of 
Peper Harow, equipped with a library like the 
Bodleian, and inhabited by a person who might 
be otherwise like any English squire, but in men- 
tal equipment a duplicate to some extent of the 
Rector of Lincoln. Professor Pattison's father 
was a strict evangelical. He gave his son a good 
education, and the boy early manifested a delight 
in literature and learning. He soon developed an 
independence of character, and, refusing to con- 
fine his reading to the prescribed books of ortho- 

119 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

doxy, delved into the classics extensively as well 
as the English literature of Pope, Addison, and 
Swift. He was graduated at Oxford in 1836, and 
took his M.A. degree in 1840. By this time he 
had abandoned the evangelical teachings of his 
youth, and with other young men came under 
the influence of Newman, in whose house he went 
to live. When Newman went into the Roman 
Catholic Church in 1845, Pattison was not so 
much shocked as others. Indeed, he confessed 
that he " might have dropped off to Rome him- 
self in some moment of mental and physical 
depression or under pressure of some arguing 
convert." But Pattison, who was now a Fellow 
at Lincoln College, was thoroughly devoted to 
his work and was fast gaining a great reputation, 
not only for his magnetic influence upon young 
men, but as one of the ablest of college tutors 
and lecturers. In 1861 he became Rector of Lin- 
coln. He was an indefatigable writer, contribut- 
ing to many magazines and to the "Encyclopae- 
dia Britannica." An article on " Tendencies of 
Religious Thought in England, 1688-1750" 
aroused widespread comment. His literary work 
was marked by evidences of most painstaking re- 
search coupled with a profound scholarship and 
excellent judgment in the arrangement of his 
material. He devoted a lifetime to the prepara- 
tion of a history of learning — a stupendous 
undertaking of which only a portion was ever 

120 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

completed. He possessed a library said to be the 
largest private collection of his time in Oxford. 
It numbered fourteen thousand volumes, and was 
extraordinarily complete in books on the history 
of learning and philosophy in the sixteenth, sev- 
enteenth, and eighteenth centuries. Of Professor 
Pattison's personality his biographer says : — 

Under a singularly stiff and freezing manner to 
strangers and to those whom he disliked he concealed 
a most kindly nature, full of geniality and sympathy 
and a great love of congenial and especially of female 
society. But it was in his intercourse with his pupils 
and generally with those younger than himself that he 
was seen to most advantage. His conversation was 
marked by a delicate irony. His words were few and 
deliberate but pregnant with meaning and above all 
stimulating, and their effect was heightened by per- 
haps too frequent and, especially to undergraduates, 
somewhat embarrassing flashes of silence. 

All these qualities are continually appearing 
in the Squire. But Professor Pattison's own defin- 
ition of a man of learning is the best description 
of Roger Wendover : — 

Learning is a peculiar compound of memory, im- 
agination, scientific habit, accurate observation, all 
concentrated through a prolonged period on the analy- 
sis of the remains of literature. The result of this sus- 
tained mental endeavor is not a book, but a man. It 
cannot be embodied in print ; it consists of the living 
word. 

121 



THE LURE THE OF CAMERA 

The second in importance of the potent influ- 
ences upon Robert Elsmere's character was that 
of Henry Grey, a tutor of St. Anselm's (Balliol 
College), Oxford. Very early in his Oxford career 
Elsmere was taken to hear a sermon by Mr. Grey, 
which made a deep impression on his mind. The 
substance of this sermon, which is briefly sum- 
marized in the novel, was taken from a volume 
of lay sermons by Professor Thomas Hill Green, 
entitled " The Witness of God." 

The whole basis of Grey's thought was ardently 
idealist and Hegelian. He had broken with the popu- 
lar Christianity, but for him God, consciousness, duty, 
were the only realities. None of the various forms of 
materialist thought escaped his challenge ; no genuine 
utterance of the spiritual life of man but was sure of 
his sympathy. It was known that, after having pre- 
pared himself for the Christian ministry, he had re- 
mained a layman because it had become impossible to 
him to accept miracle ; and it was evident that the 
commoner type of Churchmen regarded him as an 
antagonist all the more dangerous because he was so 
sympathetic. 

All of this, like all the other references to 
Grey throughout the book, applies perfectly to 
Professor Green. He was the leading exponent 
at Oxford of the principles of Kant and Hegel, 
and attracted many followers. His simplicity, 
power, and earnestness commanded respect. He 
associated with his pupils on terms of friendly 

122 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

intimacy, frequently taking some of them with 
him on his vacations. He was a man of singularly 
lofty character, and those who knew him were 
reminded of Wordsworth, whom he resembled in 
some ways. 

When Elsmere is advised by his friend New- 
come to solve all the problems of his doubt by 
trampling upon himself, flinging away his free- 
dom, and stifling his intellect, these words of 
Henry Grey flash upon his mind : — 

God is not wisely trusted when declared unintel- 
ligible. Such honor rooted in dishonor stands ; such 
faith unfaithful makes us falsely true. 

God is forever reason ; and his communication, his 
revelation, is reason. 

The words are taken from the same volume of 
Professor Green's sermons. 

The death of this dear friend of Robert Els- 
mere occurred in 1882, and is most touchingly 
described. An old Quaker aunt was sitting by 
his bedside : — 

She was a beautiful old figure in her white cap and 
kerchief, and it seemed to please him to lie and look 
at her. " It '11 not be for long, Henry," she said to 
him once. " I 'm seventy-seven this spring. I shall 
come to thee soon." He made no reply, and his silence 
seemed to disturb her. ..." Thou 'rt not doubting 
the Lord's goodness, Henry ? " she said to him, with 
the tears in her eyes. " No," he said, " no, never. Only 
it seems to be his wilL; we should be certain of noth- 

123 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

ing — hut Himself! I ask no more." I shall never 
forget the accent of these words ; they were the breath 
of his inmost life. 

To understand the third of the three charac- 
ters from real life in " Robert Elsmere," it is 
necessary to glance at the story of Henri Fred- 
eric Amiel, a Swiss essayist, philosopher, and 
dreamer, who was born in 1821 and died in 
1881, leaving as a legacy to his friends a "Jour- 
nal In time" covering the psychological observa- 
tions, meditations, and inmost thoughts of thirty 
years. They represented a prodigious amount of 
labor, covering some seventeen thousand folio 
pages of manuscript. This extensive journal was 
translated into English by Mrs. Ward and pub- 
lished in 1883, five years before the date of 
"Robert Elsmere." Her long and exhaustive 
study of the life of this extraordinary man as re- 
vealed by himself made a deep impression upon 
the mind of the novelist — so much so that she 
could not refrain from introducing him in the 
person of the morbid Langham. A brief glance 
at some of the peculiarities of Amiel will prove 
the best interpretation of Langham, without 
which the latter must always remain a mystery. 

Amiel's estimate of the value of his life-work 
was not a high one. "This Journal of mine," he 
said, " represents the material of a good many 
volumes; what prodigious waste of thought, of 
strength. It will be useful to nobody, and even 

124 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

for myself it has rather helped me to shirk life 
than to practice it." And again, "Is everything 
I have produced taken together, my correspond- 
ence, these thousands of journal pages, my lec- 
tures, my articles, my poems, my notes of dif- 
ferent kinds — anything better than withered 
leaves ? To whom and to what have I been use- 
ful ? Will my name survive me a single day ? 
And will it ever mean anything to anybody ? A 
life of no account ! When it is all added up, 
nothing ! " 

" Amiel," says Mrs. Ward, "might have been 
saved from despair by love and marriage, by 
paternity, by strenuous and successful literary 
production." 

Family life attracted him perpetually. " I can- 
not escape from the ideal of it," he said. " A com- 
panion of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, 
of my hopes ; within, a common worship — to- 
wards the world outside, kindness and benefi- 
cence ; education to undertake ; the thousand and 
one moral relations which develop around the first 
— all these ideas intoxicate me sometimes." 

But in vain. "Reality, the present, the irre- 
parable, the necessary, repel and even terrify me. 
I have too much imagination, conscience, and 
penetration, and not enough character. The life 
of thought alone seems to me to have enough 
elasticity and immensity to be free enough from 
the irreparable ; practical life makes me afraid. 

125 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

I am distrustful of myself and of happiness be- 
cause I know myself. The ideal poisons for me 
all imperfect possession, and I abhor all useless 
regrets and repentances." 

Mrs. Ward dramatized this strange individu- 
ality in the character of Langham. The love- 
scene in which Langham wins the hand of the 
beautiful Rose, followed by the all-night mental 
struggle in which he finally feels compelled to 
renounce all that he has gained, is almost tragic 
in its intensity. 

Poor Langham, with the prize fairly within 
his grasp, found that he lacked the courage to 
retain it. And so the morning after the proposal, 
instead of the pleasantly anticipated call from her 
accepted lover, the unfortunate Rose was shocked 
to receive a pessimistic letter announcing that 
the engagement had not survived the night. To 
the casual reader it would seem that such a man 
as Langham would be impossible. But that Amiel 
was just such a person his elaborate journal fully 
reveals. And Professor Mark Pattison has given 
his testimony that Amiel was not alone in his 
experiences, for six months after the journal was 
published he wrote, " I can vouch that there is 
in existence at least one other soul which has 
lived through the same struggles mental and 
moral as Amiel." 

Among the very large number of persons who 
come upon the stage in the action of this re- 

126 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

markable book, several besides the Squire, Grey, 
and Langham may have been suggested by per- 
sons whom the author knew. But the prototypes 
of these three are the only ones who really enter, 
in a vital way, into the actual construction of the 
novel. "But who was the real Elsmere?" one 
naturally asks. Many attempts have been made 
to identify this good preacher or that worthy re- 
former with the famous character, much to the 
annoyance of the author, who really ereated Els- 
mere out of the influences already described. The 
real Elsmere would be obviously one whose re- 
ligious views were moulded by Mark Pattison and 
Thomas H. Green, and one who was profoundly 
interested in, if not influenced by, the strange 
self-distrust of Amiel. The real Elsmere would 
be also one whose religious convictions led in- 
evitably to the desire to perform some practical 
service to mankind. Such an Elsmere exists in 
the person of Mrs. Ward herself, who is to-day 
regarded by the workers and associates of the 
Passmore Edwards Settlement, in Tavistock Place, 
London, with very much the same love and grati- 
tude as Elsmere won from the people of Elgood 
Street. For this beneficent institution was a direct 
result of the novel, and owes its existence very 
largely to Mrs. Ward's energetic and influential 
efforts. 



127 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 
III 

OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY 

" The History of David Grieve," Mrs. Ward's 
third novel, is by many considered, next to " Rob- 
ert Elsmere," her greatest achievement. David 
and his sister Louie are the orphan children 
of a sturdy and high-minded Englishman whose 
wife was a French woman of somewhat doubt- 
ful character. Their development from early 
childhood to full maturity is traced with a 
power of psychological analysis seldom equaled. 
Both are intensely human and fall easy prey to 
the temptations of their environment, but in the 
end David overcomes the evil influences, while 
poor Louie, inheriting more of her mother's 
temperament, goes to her death in poverty and 
disgrace. 

The most attractive part of the book is the 
opening, where the two children are seen roam- 
ing the hills of the wild moorland country of 
their birth. This is the Kinderscout region, in 
Derbyshire, something over twenty miles south- 
east of Manchester. 

The visitor must take the train to Hayfield, 
called Clough End in the novel, and then, if he 
is fortunate enough to have permission from 
the owner, may drive a distance of four or five 
miles to what is now called Upper House, the 

128 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

country home of a wealthy merchant of Man- 
chester. This was originally known as Marriott's 
Farm, and for several hundred years was owned 
-by a family of that name. Here Mrs. Ward 
spent two days, when the entire house consisted 
of what is now the right wing. She walked over 
the moors and along the top of the Kinderscout 
with Mr. Marriott as her guide, and thus obtained 
the knowledge for the most perfect description of 
pastoral life to be found in any of her novels. 

Needham's Farm, the home of David and 
Louie, is the only other farm in the neighbor- 
hood. It is now known as the Lower House, 
and is owned by the same Manchester gentle- 
man, but is leased to a family named Needham, 
who have occupied it for many years. It looks 
now just as it did when Mrs. Ward described it. 

The " Owd Smithy," where the prayer-meet- 
ing was held and Louie wickedly played the 
ghost of Jenny Crum, is now only remotely 
suggested by a heap of rocks bearing little re- 
semblance to a building of any kind. Huge mill- 
stones, partly embedded in the earth, are scat- 
tered about here and there. The Downfall, 
which, when the water is coming over, is visible 
for miles around, is ordinarily a bare, bleak pile 
of rocks, for it is usually nearly if not quite dry. 
But after a heavy rain the water comes over in 
large volume, and, if the wind is strong, is blown 
back, presenting a most curious spectacle of a 

129 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

cascade seeming to disappear in the air when 
halfway to the bottom. Not far away is the 
Mermaid's Pool, haunted by the ghost of Jenny 
Crum. There is a real ghost story connected with 
this pool, which doubtless formed the basis of 
Mrs. Ward's legend. An old farmer named Tom 
Heys was much troubled by a ghost, of which 
he could not rid himself. He once shot at it, 
but without effect except that the bullet-mark 
is in the old house even now. An old woman 
once saw the ghost while shearing sheep. She 
threw the tongs at it. Instantly the room was 
filled with flying fleece, while the woman's clothes 
were eut to pieces and fell off her body. These 
were some of the troublesome pranks played by 
the ghost. At length the farmer discovered, some- 
where on his place, an old skull, which doubtless 
belonged to His Ghostship, and carried it to the 
Mermaid's Pool, where he deposited it 

" To stay as long as holly's green, 
And rocks on Kinderscout are seen." 

This effectually disposed of the ghost so far as 
he was concerned, but the spirit still hovers over 
the Mermaid's Pool. 

Market Place, Manchester, where we find David 
after his flight from the old farm, looks to- 
day very much the same. Half Street, however, 
on the east of the cathedral, has disappeared. 

130 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

Purcell's shop in this street was described from a 
quaint little book-shop which actually existed at 
the time. 

The Parisian scenes of " David Grieve," the 
Louvre, the Boulevards, the Latin Quarter, Fon- 
tainebleau, Saint-Germain, and Barbizon, are 
all too well known to need mention here. The 
final scenes of the novel, where David's wife is 
brought after the beginning of her fatal illness, 
are in one of the most beautiful localities in the 
English Lake District. Lucy's house is supposed 
to be on the right bank of the river. The house 
is imaginary (the one on the left bank having 
no connection with the story), but the location 
is exactly described. This is just above Pelter 
Bridge, a mile north of Ambleside, where the 
river Rothay combines with the adjacent hills 
to make one of those fascinating scenes for 
which Westmoreland is famous. Nab Scar looms 
up before us, and off to the left is Loughrigg. 
A stroll along the river brings one to the little 
bridge at the outlet of Rydal Water, where 
David walked for quiet meditation during his 
wife's illness; and still farther northward the 
larch plantations on the side of Silver How add 
their touch of beauty to the landscape. This en- 
tire region has always been dear to Mrs. Ward's 
heart from the associations of her girlhood, and, 
if Lucy must die, she could think of no more 
lovely spot for the last sad scenes. 

131 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

One character in " David Grieve " is drawn 
from real life — Elise Delaunay, the French girl 
with whom David falls in love on his first visit 
to Paris. This is, in some respects, a portrait of 
Marie Bashkirtseff, a young native of Russia, 
whose brief career as an artist attracted much 
notice. Marie was born of wealthy parents in 
1860. When she was only ten years old her 
mother quarreled with her husband and left him, 
taking the children with her. Marie returned to 
her father, with whom she traveled extensively. 
A born artist, the journey through Italy created 
in her a new and thrilling interest. She resolved 
to devote her life to art, and in 1877 entered 
the school of Julian in Paris. She soon showed 
astonishing capacity, and Julian assured her that 
her draughtsmanship was remarkable. One of 
her paintings, " Le Meeting," was exhibited in 
the Salon of 1884, and attracted much notice. 
Reproductions were made in all the leading pa- 
pers, and it was finally bought by the cousin of 
the Czar, the Grand Duke Constantine Constanti- 
nowitch, a distinguished connoisseur and himself 
a painter. This picture represents half a dozen 
street gamins of the ordinary Parisian type hold- 
ing a conference in the street. Their faces ex- 
hibit all the seriousness of a group of financiers 
consulting upon some project of vast importance. 

The peculiarity of Marie's character is set 
forth by her biographer in words which enable 

132 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

the reader of "David Grieve" instantly to recog- 
nize Elise Delaunay : — 

She never wholly yields herself up to any fixed 
rule of conduct, or even passion, being swayed this 
way or that by the intense impressionability of her 
nature. She herself recognized this anomaly in the 
remark, " My life can't endure ; I have a deal too 
much of some things and a deal too little of others, 
and a character not made to last." The very intens- 
ity of her desire to see life at all points seems to de- 
feat itself, and she cannot help stealing side glances 
at ambition during the most romantic tete-a-tete with 
a lover, or being tortured by visions of unsatisfied 
love when art should have engrossed all her faculties. 

In the last year of her life Marie achieved an 
admiration for Bastien-Lepage which, her bi- 
ographer says, " has a suspicious flavour of love 
about it. It is the strongest, sweetest, most im- 
passioned feeling of her existence." She died in 
1884, at the early age of twenty-four, assured 
by Bastien-Lepage that no other woman had ever 
accomplished so much at her age. 

" Marcella " and " Sir George Tressady " are 
novels of English social and political life — a 
field in which Mrs. Ward is peculiarly at home, 
and in which she has no superior. Marcella, who 
in her final development became one of the most 
beautiful women of all Mrs. Ward's characters, 
was suggested by the personality of an intimate 

133 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

friend, whose name need not be mentioned. Mel- 
lor Park, the home of Marcella, is drawn from 
Hampden House in Buckinghamshire. It is a 
famous old house, some centuries old, now the 
country-seat of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, 
and, with its well-kept gardens and spacious 
park, is unusually attractive. Twenty years ago, 
however, it was in a state of neglect. The road 
leading to it was full of underbrush, the garden 
was wholly uncared-for, and the house itself 
much in need of repair. This is the state in 
which Mrs. Ward describes it — and she knew 
it well, for she had leased it for a season and 
made it her summer home. The murder of the 
gamekeeper, described as taking place near Mel- 
lor Park, really happened at Stocks, Mrs. Ward's 
present home near Tring. 

The village of Ferth, where Sir George Tres- 
sady had his home and owned the collieries, is a 
mining village ten miles from Crewe, known as 
" Talk o' the Hill." The ugly black house to 
which Tressady brought home his young wife 
was described from an actual house which the 
author visited. 

" Helbeck of Bannisdale " was written while 
the author was living at Levens Hall, the hand- 
some country home of Captain Bagot, M.P., 
which Mrs. Ward leased for a summer. It is a 
few miles south of Kendal, in Westmoreland, 
and just on the border of the "Peat Moss" 

134 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

country. The old hall dates back to 1170, the 
original deed now in possession of Captain 
Bagot bearing that date. The dining-room has 
an inlaid design over the mantel with the date 
1586. The entrance-hall, dining-room, and draw- 
ing-room contain many antique relics. But the 
most remarkable feature of Levens is the gar- 
den, containing about two hundred yews trained 
and trimmed into every conceivable shape. There 
is an "umbrella" which has required two hun- 
dred years of constant care to reach its present 
size and shape; a British lion, with perfect cor- 
onet ; a peacock with correctly formed neck and 
tail feathers; a barrister's wig, a kaffir's hut, 
and so on through a long list of curious shapes. 
In front of the house the river Kent, with a 
bridge of two arches, makes a picturesque scene. 
This is the " bridge over the Bannisdale River" 
which marked the end of Laura's drive with 
Mason, where at sight of Helbeck the young 
man made his sudden and unceremonious de- 
parture. A spacious park skirts the river, through 
which runs a grassy road bounded by splendid 
oaks intertwining their branches high above. 
Following this path we reached a foot-bridge 
barely wide enough for one person to cross, on 
the park end of which is a rough platform ap- 
parently built for fishermen. Here Laura kept 
her clandestine appointment with Mason, and on 
her way home was mistaken for the ghost of the 

135 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

"Bannisdale Lady," much to the terror of a 
poor old man who chanced to be passing, and 
not a little to her own subsequent embarrass- 
ment. A little beyond is the deep pool where 
Laura was drowned. 

The exterior of Bannisdale Hall is not Levens, 
but Sizergh Castle, some two or three miles 
nearer Kendal. At the time of the story a 
Catholic family of Stricklands owned the place, 
but, like Helbeck, were gradually selling parts 
of their property, and dealers from London and 
elsewhere were constantly coming to carry off 
furniture or paintings. The family finally lost 
the property, and it was acquired by a distant 
relative, Sir Gerald Strickland, who was recently 
appointed Governor of New South Wales, and 
who now owns but does not occupy it. 

The little chapel, high up on a hill, where 
Laura was buried, is at Cartmel Fell, in North- 
ern Lancashire. A quaint little chapel five or six 
hundred years old, it is well worth a visit. 

The scenes of "Eleanor" are in Italy, and here 
Mrs. Ward fairly revels in descriptions of "Italy, 
the beloved and beautiful." The opening chapters 
have their setting in the Villa Barberini, on the 
ridge of the Alban Hills, south of Rome, from the 
balcony of which the dome of St. Peter's can be 
seen in the distance, dominating the landscape 
by day and seeming at night to be the one 

136 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

thing which has definite form and identity. 
There is a visit to Nemi and Egeria's Spring, 
after which the scene changes to the valley of 
the Paglia, beyond the hill town of Orvieto, "a 
valley with wooded hills on either side, of a blu- 
ish-green color, checkered with hill towns and slim 
campaniles and winding roads ; and, binding it 
all in one, the loops and reaches of a full brown 
river." 

Torre Amiata — the real name of which is 
Torre Alfina — is a magnificent castle, " a place 
of remote and enchanting beauty." Through 
some Italian friends, Mrs. Ward met the agent 
of this great estate, who put his house at her 
disposal for a season. This happy opportunity 
gave her the intimate acquaintance with the 
surrounding country which she used with such 
excellent skill in "Eleanor," and enabled her, 
among other things, to discover the ruined con- 
vent and chapel which formed the dismal re- 
treat of Lucy and Eleanor in their strange flight 
from Mr. Manisty. 

"Lady Rose's Daughter," which followed 
" Eleanor," likewise reflects the author's love of 
Italy. It was written, in part at least, in the 
beautiful villa at Cadenabbia, on Lake Como, 
from which a view of surpassing loveliness meets 
the eye in every direction. Mrs. Ward never 
tires of it, and in her leisure moments while there 

137 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

found great delight in reproducing in her sketch- 
book the charming colors of a landscape which can 
scarcely be equaled in any other part of the world. 
The setting of the novel in its earlier chapters 
is London. But when Julie Le Breton, worn out 
by mental anguish, the result of experiences 
which had nearly ruined her life, could be res- 
cued and brought back to life only by a quiet 
rest amid pleasant surroundings, Lake Como was 
the place selected by her kind-hearted little 
friend the duchess. As her strength gradually 
returned she daily walked over the hill to the 
path that led to the woods overhanging the 
Villa Carlotta. 

Such a path ! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, 
steeply beneath her feet, all earth and heaven — the 
wide lake, the purple mountains, the glories of a 
flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shim- 
mer of crimson and gold, repeating the noble splen- 
dor of the clouds. ... To her right a green hillside 
— each blade of grass, each flower, each tuft of heath, 
enskied, transfigured by the broad light that poured 
across it from the hidden west. And on the very hill- 
top a few scattered olives, peaches, and wild cherries 
scrawled upon the blue, their bare, leaning stems, their 
pearly whites, their golden pinks and feathery gray, 
all in a glory of sunset that made of them things en- 
chanted, aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli 
angels on the height. 

The story opens with a graphic description of 
Lady Henry's salon — frequented by the most 

138 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

prominent people in London — where the chief 
attraction was not the great lady herself, but her 
maid companion, Julie Le Breton. Everywhere 
Julie was met with smiles and evidence of eager 
interest. She knew every one, and "her rule 
appeared to be at once absolute and welcome." 
But one evening Lady Henry was ill and gave 
orders that the guests be turned away with her 
apologies. As the carriages drove up, one by 
one, the footman rehearsed Lady Henry's ex- 
cuses. But a group of men soon assembled in 
the inner vestibule, and Julie felt impelled to 
invite them into the library, where they were 
implored not to make any noise. The distinguished 
frequenters of Lady Henry's salon were all there. 
Coffee was served, and, stimulated by the blaz- 
ing fire and a sense of excitement due to the 
novelty of the situation, an animated conversa- 
tion sprang up, which continued till midnight 
and was at last suddenly interrupted by the un- 
expected appearance of Lady Henry herself. 

Lady Henry's awakening led to Julie's dis- 
missal. But her friends did not desert her. A 
little cottage was found, where Julie was soon 
comfortably installed. 

This much of the story — and little if any 
more — was suggested by the life of Julie de 
Lespinasse, a Frenchwoman who figured bril- 
liantly in the Paris society of the middle of the 
eighteenth century. 

139 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

In 1754 the Marquise du Deffand was one of 
the famous women of Paris. Her quick intelli- 
gence and a great reputation for wit had brought 
to her drawing-room the famous authors, philo- 
sophers, and learned men of the day. But the 
great lady, now nearly sixty, was entirely blind 
and subject to a " chronic weariness that de- 
voured her." She sought a remedy in the society 
of an extraordinarily attractive young woman, 
of somewhat doubtful parentage, named Julie 
de Lespinasse, whom she took into her home as 
a companion. Julie became a great social suc- 
cess. For ten years she remained with Madame 
du Deffand, when a bitter quarrel separated 
them. Julie's friends combined to assure her an 
income and a home, and she was soon estab- 
lished almost opposite the house of her former 
patron. The Marechale de Luxembourg pre- 
sented her with a complete suite of furniture. 
Turgot, the famous Minister of Louis XVI, and 
President Henault were among those who pro- 
vided funds. D'Alembert, distinguished as a 
philosopher, author, and geometrician, who was 
the cause of the quarrel with the marquise, be- 
came Julie's most intimate friend. When she 
founded her own salon, his "official patronage 
and constant presence assured its success. Her 
success was, in fact, astonishingly rapid. "In the 
space of a few months," says her biographer, 
the Marquis de Segur, " the modest room with 

140 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

the crimson blinds was nightly filled, between 
the hours of six and ten, by a crowd of chosen 
visitors, courtiers and men of letters, soldiers 
and churchmen, ambassadors and great ladies, 
. . . each and all gayly jostling elbows as they 
struggled up the narrow wooden stairs, unre- 
gretting, and forgetting in the ardor of their 
talk, the richest houses in Paris, their suppers 
and balls, the opera, and the futile lures of the 
grand world." 

The remarkable career and unique personality 
of this famous woman furnished the suggestion 
for Julie Le Breton. But beyond this the re- 
semblance is slight. The subsequent history of 
the Frenchwoman has no relation to the story 
of " Lady Rose's Daughter," and the personality 
of the two women differs in many respects. 

"The Marriage of William Ashe" is like 
"Lady Rose's Daughter" in two important re- 
spects : it is a story in which the author reveals 
an extraordinary knowledge of English politics 
and familiarity with the social life of the upper 
classes, and it, is one in which a story of real 
life plays an important part. Indeed, there is far 
more of real life in this novel than in any other 
the author has written. William Ashe and his 
frivolous and erratic wife Kitty are portraits, con- 
siderably modified, it is true, but nevertheless 
real, of William and Caroline Lamb. William 

141 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Lamb — known to posterity as Lord Melbourne 
— did not become a distinguished statesman 
until after he had entered the House of Lords. 
For twenty-five years he had been a member of 
the House of Commons, of little influence and 
almost unknown to the country at large. But 
soon after the death of George IV he entered 
the cabinet of Earl Grey as Home Secretary. 
This was in 1830. Less than four years later he 
rose suddenly to the highest position in the 
state. As Premier it was his unique privilege to 
instruct the young Queen, Victoria, in the du- 
ties of her high office — a task which he exe- 
cuted with commendable tact and skill. It is the 
inconsequential William Lamb of the House of 
Commons, and not the exalted Lord Melbourne, 
whom Mrs. Ward had in mind in portraying 
William Ashe ; and it was more particularly his 
young wife, Caroline Lamb, who furnished the 
real motive of the novel. 

"Lady Caroline," we are told by Lord Mel- 
bourne's biographer, Dr. Dunckley, " became the 
mistress of many accomplishments. She acquired 
French and Latin, and had the further courage, 
Mr. Torrens tells us, to undertake the recital of 
an ode of Sappho. She could draw and paint, and 
had the instinct of caricature. Her mind was 
brimming with romance, and, regardless of con- 
ventionality, she followed her own tastes in every- 
thing. In conversation she was both vivacious 

142 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

and witty." Such was Lady Caroline Ponsonby 
when she married William Lamb. The marriage 
proved an extremely unhappy one. Lady Caro- 
line's whole life was a series of flirtations — de- 
liberately planned, as a matter of fact, and yet 
entered upon with such mad rushes of passion as 
to seem merely the result of some irresistible 
impulse. A son was born to the couple, but he 
brought no joy, for as he grew up he developed 
an infirmity of intellect amounting almost to im- 
becility. The life of the young people was " an 
incessant round of frivolous dissipation." The 
after-supper revels often lasted till daybreak. But 
this brought no happiness, and both husband and 
wife came to realize that marriage had been, for 
them, a troublesome affair. About this time Lord 
Byron appeared on the scene. " Childe Harold" 
had brought him sudden fame. He had traveled 
in the East, was the hero of many escapades, had 
been sufficiently wicked to win the admiration of 
certain ladies of romantic tendencies, and alto- 
gether created quite & furor through the peculiar 
charms of his handsome face and dashing ways. 
He sought and obtained an introduction to Lady 
Caroline. He came to call the next day when she 
was alone, and for the next nine months almost 
lived at Melbourne House. They called each other 
by endearing names, and exchanged passionate 
verses. They were constantly together, and the 
intimacy caused much scandalous comment. It 

143 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

lasted until Byron became tired of it all, and an- 
nounced his intention of marrying. The marriage 
to a cousin of Lady Caroline aroused the fierce 
jealousy of the latter, who proceeded to perform 
a little melodrama of her own, first trying to 
jump out of a window and then stabbing her- 
self — not so deep that it would hurt — with a 
knife. 

Such escapades could have but one result. 
There came a separation, of course ; but some 
traces of the early love remained in both, and 
when Lady Caroline was dying, William Lamb 
was summoned from Ireland. The final parting 
was not without tender affection on both sides, 
and William felt his loss deeply. 

In this brief sketch the reader of Mrs. Ward's 
novel will recognize Kitty Ashe in every line. 
The portraiture is very close. Cliffe takes the 
place of Lord Byron without being made to re- 
semble him. But he serves to reveal the weakness 
of Kitty's character. Even Kitty's mischievous 
work in writing a book, which came near ruining 
her husband's career, was an episode in the life 
of Caroline Lamb. She wrote a novel in which 
Byron and herself were the principal characters, 
and their escapades were paraded before the world 
in a thin disguise which deceived nobody. 

Of Mrs. Ward's later books there is little to 
say, so far as scenes and "originals" are con- 

144 



THE COUNTRY OF MRS. WARD 

cerned. In " Fenwick's Career " the little cottage 
where the artist and his wife lived was in real- 
ity the summer home of Mrs. Ward's daughter 
Dorothy. It stands on the slope of a hill near the 
Langdale Pikes in Westmoreland, commanding a 
view of surpassing loveliness. 

In the " Testing of Diana Mallory " the scenery 
is all taken from the country near Stocks, the 
summer home of the novelist. 

In "Daphne," or "Marriage a la Mode," 
Mount Vernon, Washington, Niagara Falls, and 
an imaginary English estate supply the necessary 
scenery, and these are not described with real 
interest, for the author, contrary to her usual 
custom, is here writing with a fixed didactic pur- 
pose. But a chapter incidentally thrown in re- 
flects the novelist's impressions of a visit to the 
White House as the guest of President Roosevelt 
— an experience which interested her greatly. 
In "the tall, black-haired man with the medita- 
tive eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any 
Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against 
him, or any diplomat that might be sent to 
handle him," it is easy to recognize Mr. Root. 
Secretary Garfield is " this younger man, sparely 
built, with the sane handsome face — son of a 
famous father, modest, amiable, efficient." Sec- 
retary Taft, with whom, apparently, the dis- 
tinguished author did not really become ac- 
quainted, is lightly referred to as " this other 

145 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

of huge bulk and height, the hope of a party, 
smiling already a Presidential smile as he passed." 

It has been said of this book that it does an 
injustice to America. But such was assuredly far 
from the author's intent. Mrs. Ward, who is one 
of the keenest observers of English and Euro- 
pean public men, pays a high compliment in the 
remark that "America need make no excuses 
whatever for her best men. . . . She has evolved 
the leaders she wants, and Europe has nothing 
to teach them." She is attacking the laxity of 
the divorce laws in certain American States, and 
in doing so is actuated by motives which every 
high-minded American must applaud. The Eng- 
lish general who berates American institutions 
is held up to ridicule, and the most agreeable 
woman in the book — perhaps the only agreeable 
one — is an American. Daphne, through whom 
the author condemns the evil, is not a typical 
American girl, but, with evident intent to avoid 
offense, is made the daughter of a foreigner. 

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ward's feelings to- 
ward America are of the kindliest nature, and, 
whatever may be said of the merits of " Marriage 
a la Mode " as a work of fiction, in condemning 
an abuse which nobody can defend she has per- 
formed a real service. 



VI 
A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 



VI 

A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

'E caught our first glimpse of Maggiore 
from a window in Stresa,- late in the after- 
noon of a charming day in early spring. In spite 
of the lateness of the hour, with all the enthusi- 
asm of amateurs, we proceeded to make a photo- 
graph of the charming scene. Ruskin was right 
when he declared Maggiore to be the most beau- 
tiful of all the Italian lakes ; — at least, we felt 
willing to admit this, even though we had not 
yet seen the others. In the foreground were the 
green lawns and white paths of a well-kept park, 
skirting the lake ; then a wide stretch of water, 
roughened by the wind so that its surface, usu- 
ally smooth, was now dotted with whitecaps, 
dancing and sparkling in the afternoon sun ; 
across the water to the left, the village of Pal- 
lanza, pushing itself far out into the lake, and 
thrown into strong relief by the high mountains 
at its back ; far away in the distance, the white- 
capped summit of some Alpine range ; and above 
it all, the most beautiful of blue Italian skies. 
We gazed long upon the scene, until the twi- 
light began to deepen. Soon two figures ap- 
peared at the entrance to the park, one a woman 
149 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

in a green velvet gown, the other a man in a 
long flowing mantle of the style peculiar to 
Italy. They seemed in earnest conversation, now 
approaching each other with vigorous but grace- 
ful gestures, now falling back a step or two and 
again advancing. The man would throw his 
cloak over his left shoulder; then, when his 
earnestness caused it to slip away, he would 
throw it back again, repeating the movement 
over and over. We could almost fancy over- 
hearing Lorenzo say : — 

" In such a night 
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, 
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice 
As far as Belmont " ; 

and hearing Jessica reply : — 

" And in such a night 
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, 
And ne'er a true one." 

The little pantomime seemed ail that was needed 
to complete the romance of the scene, while the 
gathering twilight lent its aid. 

The Lago di Maggiore, known to the Ro- 
mans as Lacus Verbanus, is the westernmost as 
well as the largest of three lovely lakes which 
lie on the southern slope of the Alps, in an area 
not greater than that of the State of Rhode 
Island. The Lago di Como, or Lacus Larius, is 
the easternmost of the group, while the Lago di 

150 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

Lugano, smaller, but not less beautiful, lies be- 
tween the other two. 

There is a peculiar delicacy of beauty about 
these lakes like an exquisitely tinted rosebud 
or the perfume of apple blossoms. The rugged- 
ness of aspect common to most mountain lakes is 
here lost in the soft luxuriance of the green 
shores, the sparkling waters, and the rich blue 
sky. The hills are lined with terraces of green 
vineyards, interspersed with the pink of peach 
and almond blossoms. Camellias and azaleas 
brighten the gardens. Mulberry trees, olives, and 
cypresses, mingling with their sturdy Northern 
companions, the spruces and pines, cast their 
varied foliage against the brown of the near-by 
mountains. In the distance the snow-clad peaks 
of the Alps interpose their white mantles be- 
tween the blue of the sky and the warmer tones 
of the hillsides, while here and there picturesque 
villages stand out on projecting promontories to 
lend an additional gleam of whiteness to the land- 
scape. 

Mingling with the charm of all this natural 
beauty and intensifying it are the atmosphere of 
poetry and romance which one instinctively feels, 
and the more tangible associations with history, 
literature, science, art, and architecture which 
are constantly suggested as one makes the tour 
of the lakes. 

In the morning we found our places on the , 
151 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

upper deck of the little steamer that makes a 
zigzag journey through Maggiore. No sooner 
had the boat started than we heard sweet strains 
of music and a chorus of well-modulated male 
voices. The night before we had had a minia- 
ture play for our special benefit. Can it be pos- 
sible that now we are to have Italian opera? 
They were only a party of native excursionists, 
but we were genuinely sorry when they disem- 
barked at the next landing. 

Leaving Stresa, famous as the home of Ca- 
vour, when that great statesman was planning 
the creation of a united Italy, we soon came in 
sight of Isola Bella. As it lay there in the bright 
sunlight, its green terraces and tropical foliage, 
its white towers and arcaded walls reflected in 
the blue waters of the lake, the snowy mountains 
forming a distant background and a cloudless 
blue sky surmounting the whole, we thought it 
beautiful. But in this, it seems, our taste was at 
fault, and while admiring we ought to have 
been criticizing. It was like spending an even- 
ing with genuine enjoyment at the theater, only 
to find out the next morning from the critic of 
the daily newspaper that the play was poor, the 
acting only ordinary, and the applause merely 
an act of generosity. Southey wrote of it, " Isola 
Bella is at once the most costly and the most 
absurd effort of bad taste that has ever been 
produced by wealth and extravagance." A more 

152 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

recent English writer condemns its " monstrous 
artificialities." He declares that " the gardens 
are a triumph of bad taste," and that " artificial 
grottoes, bristling with shells, terrible pieces of 
hewn stone, which it would be an offense to 
sculpture to term statuary, offend the eye at 
every turn." Another says that it is " like a 
Perigord pie, stuck all over with the heads of 
woodcocks and partridges," while some one else 
thinks it " worthy the taste of a confectioner." 

On the other hand, our own distinguished 
novelist, Mrs. Edith Wharton, found much to 
be admired : — 

The palace has . . . one feature of peculiar interest 
to the student of villa architecture, namely, the beau- 
tiful series of rooms in the south basement, opening 
on the gardens, and decorated with the most exquisite 
ornamentation of pebble-work and sea-shells, mingled 
with delicate-tinted stucco. These low-vaulted rooms, 
with marble floors, grotto-like walls, and fountains 
dripping into fluted conches, are like a poet's notion 
of some twilight refuge from summer heats, where 
the languid green air has the coolness of water : even 
the fantastic consoles, tables, and benches, in which 
cool glimmering mosaics are combined with carved 
wood and stucco painted in faint greens and rose- 
tints, might have been made of mother-of-pearl, coral, 
and seaweed for the adornment of some submarine 
palace. 

It was the fashion to admire the island before 
it became the rule to condemn its artificiality. 

153 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Bishop Burnet visited Maggiore in 1685, four- 
teen years after the Count Vitaliano Borromeo 
had transformed the island from a barren slate 
rock into a costly summer residence. He thought 
it " one of the loveliest spots of ground in the 
world," and wrote, " there is nothing in all Italy 
that can be compared with it." At a much later 
time, Lord Lytton allowed himself to rise to the 
heights of enthusiasm : — 

t " O fairy island of a fairy sea, 

Wherein Calypso might have spelled the Greek, 
Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury, 

Culled from each shore her zephyr's wings 
could seek, — 
From rocks where aloes blow. 

" Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise : 

The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon ; 
An India mellows in the Lombard skies, 

And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun, 
Smile to yon Alps of snow." 

The charge of artificiality must be admitted. 
A bare rock cannot be transformed into a thing 
of beauty and escape the charge. The ten ter- 
races are a series of walls, built in the form of 
a pyramid and covered with earth, transported 
from the mainland at great expense. Orange 
and lemon trees, amid a profusion of tropical 
foliage, are thus made to wave their fragrant 
branches in the face of Alpine snows. Is not 
this worth while? The truth is that Lake Mag- 

154 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

giore is so rich in the kind of beauty which the 
hand of Nature has provided that the creations 
of man — the villas, the gardens, the vineyards, 
the villages nestling close to the water's edge, 
and the pilgrimage churches high up on the 
mountain-sides — seem only to accentuate the 
charm. 

The Isola dei Pescatori, or Island of the Fish- 
ermen, lying near the " Beautiful Island," forms 
a striking contrast. If distance is needed to lend 
enchantment and conceal the lavish expenditure 
of wealth on the Isola Bella, it is needed still more 
to hide the squalor and avoid the odor of the 
poor fishermen's island. Yet the latter, seen from 
the steamer's deck, is far more picturesque than 
its more pretentious neighbor. The third of the 
Borromean group is known as the Isola Madre. 
It has seven terraces, surmounted by an unused 
villa. Its gardens are full of roses, camellias, and 
all kinds of beautiful plants, lemons, oranges, 
myrtle, magnolia, and semi-tropical trees in great 
profusion. Less popular than Isola Bella, it is 
considered by many far more attractive. 

Two villages lying farther south on the west- 
ern shore of the lake are worthy of at least pass- 
ing mention : — Belgirate and Arona. The former 
was the home, in the late years of his life, of 
the great master of Italian prose, Manzoni, whose 
novel, "I Promessi Sposi," was thought by Scott 
to be the finest ever written. He was a man of 

155 



THE LUREOF THE CAMERA 

the people, greatly beloved by his countrymen 
for his benevolence, tender sympathy, and warmth 
of affection. Arona was the home of the patron 
saint of the Italian lakes, Carlo Borromeo. A 
colossal statue, sixty-six feet high on a pedestal 
of forty feet, built to his memory in 1697, is 
one of the sights of the region. St. Charles was 
born in 1537. At the age of twenty-three he 
was made a cardinal by his uncle, Pope Pius IV. 
Inheriting great wealth, he devoted his revenues 
to charity, sometimes living on bread and water 
and sleeping on straw. Traveling as a missionary, 
he visited the remotest villages and almost inac- 
cessible shepherds' huts high up on the moun- 
tains. He is best remembered for his self-sacrifice 
and heroic devotion to the people in the great 
plague at Milan in 1575. But the great saint 
was a hater of heretics and caused many of them 
to be put to death. Nor was he without enemies 
among those of his own faith. A Franciscan 
monk once fired upon him, but he escaped as if 
by miracle, the bullet glancing from the heavy 
gold embroidery of his cope — a demonstration 
that gold lace is not always a wholly superfluous 
decoration. 

Our little steamer zigzagged back and forth, 
stopping at many villages, until finally Luino was 
reached. This busy little town was the birth- 
place of Bernardino Luini, the illustrious dis- 
ciple of Leonardo da Vinci ? whose frescoes 

156 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

adorn many of the Italian churches. It was also 
the scene of one of Garibaldi's brave exploits, 
though an unsuccessful one. Here we left the 
steamer for a short ride by tramway to Ponte 
Tresa, on Lake Lugano, where another little 
boat was waiting. Although usually regarded as 
one of the Italian lakes, the greater portion 
of Lugano is in Swiss territory. .Most tourists 
make it the gateway from the north into Italy, 
passing through its most populous town, Lu- 
gano, which, with its neighbor, Paradiso, lines 
the shores of a beautiful blue bay, guarded on 
either side by high mountains, clothed with 
groves of oak and chestnut set off by vineyards 
and gardens on the lower slopes. To the front 
Monte Caprino rises straight up from the water 
like one huge, solitary rock, keeping stern watch 
over the soft luxuriance of the towns. San Sal- 
vatore is the sentinel on the right, while Monte 
Bri and Monte Boglia are on duty at the left. 
Lugano was the home of the Italian patriot, 
Mazzini, who has been called the prophet of 
Italian unity, as Garibaldi was its knight-errant 
and Cavour its statesman. 

On the eastern side of the lake and farther to 
the south is Monte Generoso. We saw it only 
from the steamer, but it ought to be seen at close 
range, for it is covered with woods and pastures 
and commands a view of the chain of lakes that 
is said to be unsurpassed in all Italy. We main- 
*" 157 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

tained our zigzag journey, however, until Por- 
lezza was reached, where another little train stood 
ready to carry us over to Lake Como. 

For kaleidoscopic revelations of Nature's 
choicest scenes and rarest beauties, the descent 
from the highlands to the town of Menaggio could 
scarcely be equaled. The train moved slowly 
through the vineyards and gardens, gradually 
descending, until with a sudden turn the whole 
northern end of Como burst gloriously into view. 
Never was sky a lovelier blue and never did water 
more splendidly reflect its azure hue. Far away 
the snowy Alps gave a touch of the sublime to 
a view of surpassing grandeur. In a moment the 
scene changed, and Bellagio with its white villas 
stood before us, separating the two arms of the 
lake. Then Varenna with its solitary tower, and 
finally, at the edge of the water, the village of 
Menaggio itself. 

" How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that greets 
Thy open beauties or thy lone retreats, — 
Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales 
Thy cliffs : the endless waters of thy vales : 
Tby lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, 
Each with its household boat beside the door." 

So sang Wordsworth in the days of his youth. 

Slowly winding our way down the precipitous 
slopes, we reached at last the end of the railway, 
and a third steamer closed the experiences of the 
day by carrying us safely to Cadenabbia. " That 

158 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

was Italy ! and as lovely as Italy can be when she 
tries." So the poet Longfellow wrote to James 
T. Fields in 1868. And every one who has been 
there can appreciate the poet's feeling when he 
wrote : — 

" I ask myself, Is this a dream ? 
"Will it all vanish into air ? 
Is there a land of such supreme 

And perfect beauty anywhere ? 
Sweet vision ! Do not fade away ; 
Linger until my heart shall take 
Into itself the summer day 

And all the beauties of the lake." 

Above Cadenabbia and reached by a winding 
path through terraces of vineyards, there is a bit 
of woods, made brilliant at this time of the spring 
by a wealth of wild cherries, peaches, and alm- 
onds in full blossom, and by the tall, luxuriant 
growths of rhododendrons, now covered in thick 
profusion with huge clusters of splendid pink 
and purple blossoms. A shady spot near the 
edge of the woods, where there was a table and 
some chairs, made a convenient place where we 
could rest after our climb, and view Longfellow's 
vision of " supreme and perfect beauty." The 
grand and majestic beauty of Maggiore and the 
more modest but sweeter loveliness of Lugano 
were but the preparation for the glorious, satis- 
fying perfection of Como, the most beautiful of 
all the lakes, "a serene accord of forms and 
colors." 

159 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Lake Como is famous, not alone for its beauty, 
but for the many associations of history, science, 
art, and literature. For centuries its shores have 
been thickly set with costly villas — the homes of 
wealth and luxury, and not infrequently of learn- 
ing and culture. The elder Pliny, whose habits 
of industry were so great that he worked on his 
prodigious " Natural History " even while travel- 
ing at night in his carriage, was born at the city 
of Como, as was also his gifted nephew. Volta, the 
great physicist and pioneer in electrical science, 
Pope Innocent III, and Pope Clement XIII were 
all natives of the same place. The Cathedral of 
Como is one of the most splendid in northern 
Italy. The churches scattered all along the shores 
of the lake, as well as the villas, are a delight 
to students of art and architecture. They are 
filled with paintings of great interest and valu- 
able works of sculpture. 

Historically, although not conspicuous in the 
great events of the world's progress, the lake has 
been the theater of many stirring scenes, parti- 
cularly in mediaeval times. Halfway between 
Menaggio and the northern end of the lake lies 
a rocky promontory known as Musso, the site in 
the sixteenth century of a great and almost im- 
pregnable castle. It was the center of the ac- 
tivities of one of the ablest, wickedest, and most 
picturesque figures in the history of Italy. His 
name was Gian Giacomo de Medici, although he 

160 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

was not related to the famous Florentine family. 
He is best known by the name of " II Mede- 
ghino." He is described as a man of medium 
stature, broad-chested, and of pallid but good- 
humoured countenance, and possessed of a keen 
and searching glance. He was kind to his family 
and possessed the affection of his soldiers; he 
was temperate and not given to. the indulgence 
of the senses; and he gave liberally to charity 
and to the encouragement of art. But he was a 
murderer, traitor, liar, and all-round villain of the 
first magnitude. If San Carlo Borromeo was the 
patron saint of the Italian lakes, his uncle, II 
Medeghino, was their presiding demon. He be- 
gan his career at the age of sixteen by killing 
another youth — an act for which he was ban- 
ished from Milan, but which became the step- 
ping-stone to a successful campaign of ambition, 
based upon crime and bloodshed. 

In those days of violence the capacity to do 
murder was a recommendation, and II Medeghino 
soon rose to a position of power. He helped 
Francesco Sforza, the last of that famous house, 
to regain the Duchy of Milan by taking the life 
of a French courier and stealing his documents, 
for which services he demanded the Castle of 
Musso. The price asked by the duke was another 
murder, and the victim this time was a personal 
friend and fellow soldier. II Medeghino did not 
hesitate, but brutally assassinated his friend. The, 

161 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

duke, no longer able to refuse, sent him to the 
castle with a letter to the governor, ordering the 
latter to turn the fortress over to the young ad- 
venturer, but also with a sealed letter requesting 
the governor to cut his throat. II Medeghino 
took no chances on the secret letter. He broke 
the seal and destroyed this message, presenting 
the open letter and obtaining possession of the 
stronghold. Immediately he made his power felt. 
He strengthened the walls of the fort and made 
the cliffs inaccessible. He made himself feared 
and his authority respected. He began a career 
of piracy and plunder, continuing until he be- 
came the master, not only of Lake Como, but of 
Lugano and much of the adjacent territory. His 
fleet of seven large ships and many smaller ones 
swept the lake from end to end. 

Although but thirty years of age, he was now 
a power to be reckoned with. The Spaniards, 
finding him dangerous and not to be conquered 
by force, finally succeeded in winning him by 
concessions. Charles V created him Marquis of 
Musso and Count of Lecco, and induced him to 
begin a vigorous warfare against his former 
master, the Duke of Milan. But the end was 
near. A great force of Swiss attacked from the 
north and the Duke of Milan sent a large fleet 
and great army to subdue the rebel. A battle off 
Menaggio was lost by the pirate. He made a 
desperate fight, but was compelled to yield to 

162 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

superior forces. But he nevertheless retired with 
honors. He was given an enormous sum of money 
and the title of Marquis of Marignano, together 
with free pardon for himself and all his follow- 
ers. The rest of his days were spent in the service 
of Spain. When he died, in his sixtieth year, his 
brother, Pope Pius IV, erected a magnificent 
tomb to his memory in the Cathedral of Milan, 
where all who feel so disposed may pause to honor 
this prince of pirates and most unscrupulous of 
plunderers, conspicuous for his wickedness, even 
in an age ruled by violence. 

It is a relief to turn from the history of one 
of the wickedest of men to that of one of the 
noblest of women, by merely crossing the lake to 
the village of Varenna — a town known to tour- 
ists for its milk-white cascade, the Fiume Latte, 
a waterfall which leaps in spring-time from a 
height of a thousand feet. Here the remnant of 
the castle of the good Queen Theodelinda may 
still be seen. 

In the sixth century a.d., the Langobards, or 
Long-Beards, taking advantage of the weakness 
and desolation following the long wars against 
the Goths, descended into Italy to take posses- 
sion of the land. A powerful race of Teutons, 
renowned for daring and love of war, they met 
with little resistance. Their king, soon after, met 
a tragic death at the hands of his wife, and his 
successor reigned only two years. After ten years 

163 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

of experiments with a national confederacy, com- 
posed of some thirty-five dukes, constantly at war 
with each other, and resulting in a condition of 
anarchy, the first real king of the Lombards was 
chosen, Authari the Long-haired, known also by 
his Roman name of Flavius. The chief event in 
the life of this monarch was his courtship and 
marriage. Having decided, probably for reasons 
of state, upon the daughter of Garibald, Duke of 
Bavaria, as his future wife, he sent ambassadors 
to arrange the union. But becoming possessed of 
a strange and unaccountable desire to catch a 
glimpse of the lady before taking the final step, 
he is said to have accompanied his messengers 
in disguise. Fortunately for the romance of the 
incident, he was charmed with her beauty while 
the princess promptly fell in love with him. 

The Christian Theodelinda became the honored 
queen of the Lombards and so won the confidence 
of their leaders that after the death of Authari, 
shortly after their marriage, she was invited to 
choose her own husband, who would thereupon 
become the king. She chose Agilulf, Duke of 
Turin. Through the influence of Theodelinda, 
the Lombards were brought into the Catholic 
Church, and the queen herself built at Monza the 
first Lombard cathedral. Pope Gregory the Great 
is said to have recognized her services by send- 
ing her a precious relic, one of the nails of the 
Cross, wrought into a narrow band or fillet of 

164 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

iron. Sometime later, probably in the twelfth cen- 
tury, this ancient relic, combined with a broad 
band of gold set with many jewels, was converted 
into the celebrated Iron Crown of Lombardy, with 
which the German Emperors in mediaeval times 
were crowned Kings of Italy. It was used at the 
coronation of Napoleon at Milan in 1805, and by 
the present King of Italy upon - his accession. 
Theodelinda's name was held in reverence by her 
people, not only for her great public and private 
charities, but for her kindliness of heart. The 
castle at Varenna is said to have been her home 
during the last years of her life. 

If this story of the Larian Lake, to use its 
Roman name, is being told backwards, it is be- 
cause we first saw it at the northern end, where 
the interest centers in the events of the Middle 
Ages. But having jumped from the sixteenth 
back to the sixth century, it requires no greater 
agility to skip a few more hundreds of years until 
we get back to the time of Julius Caesar, who 
as governor of Cisalpine Gaul sent five thousand 
colonists to the shores of the lake to protect the 
region against the depredations of the Gauls. 
Five hundred of them settled at the ancient town 
of Comum. The city never played an important 
part in the history of Rome, but remained a com- 
paratively quiet yet prosperous municipality. 

In the Golden Age of Rome, the shores of 
the Lacus Larius became lined with costly villas, 

165 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

where wealthy men sought a retreat from the too 
strenuous life of the Imperial City. The need 
of such a refuge must be apparent to any one 
having even the most superficial knowledge of 
Roman municipal life in the first century of the 
Christian era. To escape the corruption of official 
life, the endless feasts of extravagance and im- 
morality, and even the public amusements, where, 
as in the Flavian amphitheater, 87,000 people 
were wont to gather to witness vast spectacles 
of cruelty, obscenity, and bloodshed, there was 
need enough, and the moral, self-respecting, and 
refined people of Rome fully realized it. For 
there were such people, though the fact has been 
obscured by history, which has to deal chiefly 
with the excesses of the ruling classes. 

The two Plinys and their friends were bril- 
liant examples of the Romans of the better sort. 
Though an aristocrat, Pliny the younger was a 
charitable, good-natured man, who loved the quiet 
of a home where he could combine study with 
fishing, hunting, and the companionship of con- 
genial friends. He possessed several villas on the 
shores of Como, but two particularly interested 
him, one of which, in a somewhat whimsical let- 
ter, he called "Tragedy" and the other "Com- 
edy " ; the high boot worn by tragedians sug- 
gesting the name of the one on a high rock over 
the lake, while the sock or slipper of the comedian 
applied to the villa down by the water's edge. 

166 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

The latter had the great advantage that one might 
fish from his bedroom, throwing the line out 
of the window while he lay in bed. Pliny does 
not tell how many fish he caught under these 
conditions. 

The Villa Pliniana, just above Torno, on the 
eastern side of the lake, was built in 1570 by 
Count Giovanni Anguisola, whose claim to dis- 
tinction lies in his participation in the murder of 
Pierluigi Farnese. The villa was erected as a safe 
retreat, where he might escape vengeance. Its 
feature of greatest interest is a curious stream 
which flows through the central apartment of 
the house. Fifteen centuries before the villa was 
constructed, Pliny described this stream in one 
of his most interesting letters. "A certain spring," 
he writes, " rises in a mountain and runs down 
through the rocks till it is inclosed in a small 
dining-parlor made by hand ; after being slightly 
retarded there, it empties itself into the Larian 
lake. Its nature is very remarkable. Three times 
a day it is increased or diminished in volume by 
a regular rise and fall. This can be plainly seen, 
and when perceived is a source of great enjoy- 
ment. You recline close to it and take your food 
and even drink from the spring itself (for it is 
remarkably cold) : meanwhile with a regular and 
measured movement, it either subsides or rises. 
If you place a ring or any other object on the 
dry ground it is gradually moistened and finally 

167 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

covered over : then again it comes to view and 
is by degrees deserted by the water. If you watch 
long enough you will see both of these perform- 
ances repeated a second and even a third time." 

Another famous villa at the southern end of 
the lake, near the city of Como, was erected by 
Cardinal Gallio, the son of a fisherman, who 
achieved high honors in his Church and amassed 
great wealth. This villa was later the home of 
the discarded Queen Caroline, wife of George IV, 
who gave it the name of Villa d'Este and made 
great additions to its elegance. It is now a fash- 
ionable hotel. Cardinal Gallio seems to have had 
a passion for extensive villas. His palace at Grave- 
dona, at the head of the lake, was one of the most 
splendid in Europe. It is said that he could make 
the journey to Rome, requiring six days, and stop 
at one of his own palaces every night. 

The Villa Carlotta now the property of the 
Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, is at Tremezzo, a vil- 
lage adjoining Cadenabbia on the south. Its chief 
beauty lies in the garden, filled with a profusion 
of plants of every variety — roses, camellias, 
azaleas, magnolias, oranges, lilies — all arranged 
in charming walks, with here and there a vista 
of the lake and Bellagio in the distance, reflect- 
ing the bright sunlight from its white walls. 
Above are the woods and the little round table 
overlooking the water, where we began our sur- 
vey of the Larian shores. The interior contains 

168 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

a large collection of sculptures, but most visi- 
tors remember only two pieces, — Thorwaldsen's 
" Triumphant Entry into Babylon of Alexander 
the Great," and Canova's lovely "Cupid and 
Psyche." 

After seeing some of these palaces merely as 
tourists, and learning the history of others of an 
earlier day, particularly the homes described by 
Pliny, we could not help wishing to see an Italian 
palace which is not a show place but a home, and 
typical of modern life on the shores of this won- 
derful lake, for so many centuries sought by men 
of wealth as the place where they could realize 
their dreams of comfort and delight. 

The opportunity of gratifying this desire came 
sooner than we expected. We had started one 
morning to make a call at the summer home of 
Mrs. Humphry Ward, who had leased the Villa 
Bonaventura for a season. Mistaking the direc- 
tions, we entered the gate of the Villa Maria, a 
large house in the classical lines of the Italian 
Renaissance, standing high above the road and 
reached by winding paths through a garden of 
surpassing loveliness. Our ring was answered by 
the Italian butler, who in response to our in- 
quiries nodded pleasantly, not understanding a 
word we said, and disappeared. In a few mo- 
ments we were most cordially greeted by an 
American gentleman, who assured us he was 
delighted to see jis, and would be happy to % 

169 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

show us the villa. In another moment, and be- 
fore we could make explanations, another ring 
of the doorbell announced two other callers, who, 
as it happened, were really expected at the hour 
of our arrival, by invitation to see the villa. We 
had made a mistake, and in turn had been mis- 
taken for two other people, but our friendly host 
insisted that we, too, should see his beautiful 
home. 

We were standing in the atrium before a large 
marble vase — a restoration of the so-called Gaeta 
vase, by Salpion, a Greek sculptor of the time of 
Praxiteles. The original was thrown into the Bay 
of Gaeta, where for centuries it remained par- 
tially embedded in the mud. The fishermen of 
many generations used it as a convenient post 
for mooring their boats, and did much damage 
with their ropes. It was finally rescued and taken 
to a church for use as a baptismal font, and later 
transferred to the Naples Museum. The theme 
of the vase is the presentation of the infant 
Bacchus, by Mercury, to one of the Nymphs — 
a favorite subject with ancient sculptors. Mr. 
Haines, our courteous host, was justly proud of 
this — the first complete restoration of this beau- 
tiful work of art. The decoration of the atrium, 
including the eight lunettes, as well as of the 
entire villa, are by the hand of Pogliaghi, who 
now stands at the head of the Lombard decorators. 
He is the young sculptor who in 1895 was com- 

170 




THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

missioned to design the magnificent bronze doors 
of the Cathedral of Milan, a work requiring seven 
years. 

One striking feature of the villa is its har- 
mony of color. Glance out the doorway, from the 
atrium across the lake, or from the dining-room 
toward Menaggio, or through the library win- 
dows into the garden, and everywhere you see 
the blue Italian sky, the brown of the distant 
mountains, the green of the freshly budding 
trees, the sparkle of the lake, and the brilliant 
tints of the camellias, hyacinths, and cineraria, 
combining to make a scene of splendor rarely 
equaled in this good old world of ours. Then, 
glancing back into the rooms of the villa, you find 
the same tints and shadings in the walls and ceil- 
ings, the paintings, tapestries, and upholstery. 
Perfect harmony with Nature at her best seems 
to have been Pogliaghi's motive. 

Passing to the right of the atrium, we entered 
the music saloon, decorated and furnished in the 
style of Louis XIV, a large and beautiful room, 
noteworthy, not only for its acoustic properties, 
but also for extreme richness and harmony of 
design and color. An arched opening reveals a 
portion of a fine piece of tapestry by Giulio 
Komano, dating from the sixteenth century, 
which covers the rear wall of the dining-room. 
This tapestry, formerly owned by the Duke of 
Modena, is a representation of the old Greek 

171 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

legend of the presentation of Bacchus, the same 
theme as that of the Gaeta vase. Indeed, it was 
the possession of this tapestry which suggested 
to Mr. Haines the idea of obtaining a restoration 
of the famous vase. A striking feature of the 
dining-room is the frieze of Poliaghi represent- 
ing young Bacchantes in the midst of fruit and 
flowers, so cleverly painted that it seems to be 
done in high relief, completely deceiving the eye. 

On the left of the atrium is the library, with 
two life-size portraits by De La Gandara, one of 
Mr. Haines and the other of his wife. Mrs. 
Haines was an accomplished musician as well as 
an enthusiastic collector of works of art. The 
Villa Maria was designed by her as a fitting 
shrine for her valuable collections as well as with 
a view to musical entertainments. Since her death, 
in 1899, Mr. Haines, with equal enthusiasm and 
taste, has added to the collections and improved 
the villa. His study is in the rear of the library. 
Its distinguishing feature is a life-size portrait 
of the children of Catherine de Medici, by Fed- 
erico Zuccheri. This painting is seven hundred 
years old, but the colors are still fresh, and al- 
though life-size it has the exactness of a minia- 
ture. It was formerly in the Borghese collection. 

Ascending the marble stairway we were ush- 
ered into the " Porcelain " room, containing the 
most unique and valuable portion of the art 
treasures of the villa. There are four cabinets 

172 



A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES 

in the style of Louis XV, containing what is 
probably the best collection to be found in Eu- 
rope of rare Ancienne, Porcelain de Saxe, Old 
Chelsea, Nymphenberg, Dresden, Meissen, Lud- 
wigsburg, and Sevres pieces in endless variety 
and bewildering richness of design. There are 
fans painted by Nicolas Poussin, and others by 
French and Italian artists of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. There is a fine portrait of 
the Duchess de Chevreuse by La Guilliere and 
an original painting of Louis le Grand by Le 
Fevre. A rare clock of the period of Louis XV, 
made about 1750, with miniature allegorical 
paintings, surrounded by pearls, stands upon a 
Louis XI Vdesk, ornamented with elaborate carved 
bronzes by Reisinger. On either side of the clock 
is a fine old Bohemian vase, while near by is a 
miniature of Napoleon by Isabey. The decora- 
tion of the room is completed by a fine old piece 
of Gobelin tapestry, bearing the signature of 
Boucher and the date 1747, originally presented 
by Louis XV to one of the queens of Spain. 

These are a few of the treasures shown to us 
in a very brief visit to the Villa Maria. The 
enthusiasm of its owner for art goes hand in 
hand with a love of nature. If the interior deco- 
rations have been done with the eye of a dis- 
criminating artist, no less has the exterior received 
the same careful attention. The fine fountain, 
just within the gates, the flower-beds with their 
" 173 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

well-harmonized tints, the olives and cypresses, 
the camellias, the cherry tree in full blossom, all 
add their charm to a view which would be un- 
surpassed even without their aid. For the villa 
is situated at one of the loveliest points on beau- 
tiful Como, commanding on all sides a panorama 
of distant mountains, with here and there a snow- 
capped peak, of peaceful water glistening in the 
warm April sun, of little white villages dotting 
the shores of the lake, of quaint little chapels in 
nooks and corners of the mountains, of peach 
trees and almonds adding a touch of pink to the 
landscape, of blue skies and fleecy clouds sur- 
mounting the whole like a brilliant canopy. No 
wonder that our genial host, after showing all 
the beauties of his palace, stood by the open 
window and waving his hand exclaimed, " I call 
this my J. M. W. Turner." But the window 
framed a lovelier work of art than the hand of 
man will ever paint. 



VII 

LITERARY LANDMARKS OF 
NEW ENGLAND 



VII 

LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

THE quest for literary landmarks is always a 
fascinating pursuit, particularly to the ama- 
teur photographer who likes to take pictures that 
mean something. I have always found a certain 
exhilaration in seeing for myself and reproduc- 
ing photographically the places made memorable 
by some favorite author. To look into the ground 
glass of my camera and see the reflected image 
of some lovely scene that has been an inspiration 
to poet or novelist, is like suddenly coming into 
possession of a prize that had ever before been 
thought unattainable. It brings the author of a 
by-gone generation into one's own time. It deep- 
ens the previous enjoyment — makes it more 
real. When I stand before the house in which 
some great author has lived, I seem to see more 
than a mere dwelling. The great man himself 
comes out to meet me, invites me in, shows me 
his study, presents me to his wife and children, 
walks with me in his garden, tells me how the 
surroundings of his home have influenced his 
literary work, and finally sends me away with a 
peculiar sense of intimacy. I go home, reach 
" 177 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

out my hand for a certain neglected book on my 
shelves, and lo ! it opens as with a hidden 
spring, a new light glows upon its pages, and 
I find myself absorbed in conversation with a 
friend. 



178 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 
I 

CONCORD 

For this kind of hunting I know of no better 
place in America than New England, and no 
better town in which to begin than the sleepy 
old village of Concord, twenty miles northwest 
of Boston. On the occasion of a recent visit, we 
walked out Monument Street and made our first 
stop at a point in the road immediately opposite 
the "Old Manse." A party of school-children 
were just entering. Had we been looking at the 
grove on the hillside, at the opposite end of the 
town, where Hawthorne used to walk to and fro, 
composing the " Tanglewood Tales," we might 
have supposed they had come to catch a few 
echoes of the famous story-teller's voice, and I 
should have made a photograph with the chil- 
dren in it. But here they did not seem so appro- 
priate, and we waited until they had gone. When 
all was quiet again, it did not require a very 
vigorous imagination to look down the vista of 
black-ash trees seen between the " two tall gate- 
posts of rough-hewn stone," and fancy a man 
and woman walking arm in arm down the ave- 
nue toward the weather-stained old parsonage, its 
dark sides scarcely visible beneath the shadows 
of the over-arching trees. The man is of medium 
height, broad-shouldered, and walks with a vig- 

179 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

orous stride, suggesting the bodily activity of a 
young athlete. His hair is dark, framing with wavy 
curves a forehead both high and broad. Heavy 
eyebrows overhang a pair of dark blue eyes, that 
seem to flash with wondrous expressiveness, as 
he bends slightly to speak to the little woman 
at his side. His voice is low and deep, and she 
responds to what he is saying with an upward 
glance of her soft gray eyes and a happy smile 
that clearly suggest the sunshine which she is 
destined to throw into his life. 

Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne and Sophia Pea- 
body, his bride, on a day in July, 1842, passed 
into the gloomy old house where they were to 
begin their honeymoon. I say " begin " because 
it was not like the ordinary honeymoon that ends 
abruptly on the day the husband first proposes 
to go alone on a fishing excursion. Nor was it 
like that of a certain " colored lady " whom I 
once knew. On the day following the wedding 
she left William to attend to his usual duties 
in the stable and the garden while she started 
on a two weeks' "honeymoon " trip to her old 
Virginia home, explaining afterward that she 
" could n't afford to take dat fool niggah along, 
noway." 

The Hawthorne honeymoon was one of that 
rare kind which begins with the wedding bells 
and has no ending. They were married lovers 
all their days. Hawthorne had seen enough of 

180 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

solitariness in his bachelorhood to appreciate 
the rare companionship of his gifted wife, and 
he wanted nothing more* The dingy old par- 
sonage was a Paradise to them and the new 
Adam and Eve invited no intrusions into their 
Eden. Some of their friends came occasionally, 
it is true, but Hawthorne records that during 
the next winter the snow in the old avenue was 
marked by no footsteps save his own for weeks at 
a time. And his loving wife, though she had come 
from the midst of a large circle of friends, found 
only happiness in sharing this solitude. 

During the three years in which Hawthorne 
lived in this " Old Manse," he seldom walked 
through the village, was known to but few of 
his neighbors, never went to the town-meeting, 
and not often to church, though he lived in a 
house that had been built by a minister and oc- 
cupied by ministers so long that " it was awful 
to reflect how many sermons must have been 
written there." 

Let us peep through the windows of the par- 
lor at the end of the dark avenue and indulge 
in another flight of fancy. It is an unusual day 
at the Manse, for two visitors have called to 
greet the new occupant. The elder of the two, a 
man in his fortieth year, is Ralph Waldo Emer- 
son, who lives in the other end of the town in a 
large, comfortable, and cheery house, which we 
expect to see a little later. He knows the Old 

181 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Manse well. His grandfather built it shortly be- 
fore the outbreak of the Revolution and wit- 
nessed the battle of Concord from a window in 
the second story. This good man, who was the 
Revolutionary parson of the village, died in 
1776 at the early age of thirty-three, and a few 
years later his widow married the Reverend Ezra 
Ripley, who maintained, for more than sixty 
years, the reputation of the Manse as a producer 
of sermons, being succeeded by his son, Samuel, 
also a minister. In October, 1834, Emerson 
came there with his mother and remained a year, 
during which he wrote his first, and one of his 
greatest essays, " Nature." 

The other visitor is Henry D. Thoreau, a 
young man of twenty-five, then living with the 
Emersons. The two guests and their host are 
sitting bolt upright in stiff-backed chairs. The 
host speaks scarcely a word except to ask, for 
the sake of politeness, a few formal questions, 
which Thoreau answers with equal brevity. Em- 
erson alone talks freely, but his words, however 
much weighted with wisdom, are those of a 
monologuist and do not beget conversation. Yet 
there is something in the manner of all three 
that seems to betray the unspoken thought. 
Hawthorne's observing eyes seem to be saying, 
"So this is Emerson, the man who, they say, is 
drawing all kinds of queer and oddly dressed 
people to this quiet little village, — visionaries, 

182 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

theorists, men and women who think they have 
discovered a new thought, and come to him 
to see if it is genuine. Perhaps he might help 
solve some of my problems. What a pure, in- 
tellectual gleam seems to be diffused about him ! 
With what full and sweet tones he speaks and 
how persuasively ! How serene and tranquil he 
seems! How reposeful, as though he had ad- 
justed himself, with all reverence, to the supreme 
requirements of life ! Yet I am not sure I can 
trust his philosophy. Let me admire him as a 
poet and a true man, but I shall ask him no 
questions." 

Then while Thoreau is talking, Emerson gazes 
at Hawthorne and reflects : " This man's face 
haunts me. His manner fascinates me. I talk to 
him and his eyes alone answer me ; and yet this 
seems sufficient. He does not echo my thoughts. 
He has a mind all his own. He says so little that 
I fear I talk too much. Yet he is a greater man 
than his words betray. I have never found 
pleasure in his writings, yet I cannot help admir- 
ing the man. Some day I hope to know him bet- 
ter. I have much to learn from him." 

Meanwhile Hawthorne's gaze has turned upon 
the younger visitor. " What a wild creature he 
seems ! How original ! How unsophisticated ! 
How ugly he is, with his long nose and queer 
mouth. Yet his manners are courteous and even 
his ugliness seems honest and agreeable. I under- 
183 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

stand he drifts about like an IndiaD, has no 
fixed method o£ gaining a livelihood, knows 
every path in the woods and will sit motionless 
beside a brook until the fishes, and the birds, 
and even the snakes will cease to fear his pres- 
ence and come back to investigate him. He is 
a poet, too, as well as a scientist, and I am sure 
has the gift of seeing Nature as no other man 
has ever done. Some day I must walk with him 
in the woods." 

Every man in the room loves freedom, and 
hates conventionalities. The ordinary formalities 
of polite society are unendurable. Therefore the 
four walls seem oppressive and the straight- 
back chairs produce an agonizing tension of the 
nerves. They are all glad when the call is over. 

Now let the scene change. It is winter and 
the river behind the house is frozen. In the 
glory of the setting sun, its surface seems a 
smooth sea of transparent gold. The edges of 
the stream are bordered with fantastic draperies, 
hanging from the overarching trees in strange 
festoons of purest white. Once more our three 
friends appear, but the four walls are gone and 
the wintry breeze has blown away all constraint. 
All three lovers of the open air are now on skates. 
Thoreau circles about skillfully in a bewildering 
series of graceful curves, for he is an expert at 
this form of sport and thinks nothing of skating 
up the river for miles in pursuit of a fox or other 

184 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

wild creature. Emerson finds it harder ; he leans 
forward until his straight back seems to parallel 
the ice and frequently returns to the shore to 
rest. Hawthorne, if we may recall the words of 
his admiring wife, moves "like a self-impelled 
Greek statue, stately and grave," as though act- 
ing a part in some classic drama, yet fond of 
the sport and apparently indefatigable in its 
pursuit. 

Once more let the scene change. Summer has 
come again. The icy decorations have given 
place to green boughs and rushes and meadow- 
grass which seem to be trying to crowd the river 
into narrower quarters. A small boat is approach- 
ing the shore in the rear of the old house. In 
the stern stands a young man who guides the 
craft as though by instinct. With scarcely per- 
ceptible motions of the single paddle, he makes 
it go in whatsoever direction he wills, as though 
paddling were only an act of the mind. The boat 
is called the Musketaquid, after the Indian name 
of the river. Its pilot, who is also its builder, 
quickly reaches the shore, and we recognize the 
man of Nature* Thoreau. Hawthorne, who has 
been admiring both the boat and steersman, now 
steps aboard and the two friends are soon mov- 
ing slowly among the lily-pads that line the 
margin of the river. Hawthorne is rowing. He 
handles the oars with no great skill, and as for 
paddling, it would be impossible for him to make 

185 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

the boat answer his will. Thoreau plucks from 
the water a white pond-lily, and remarks that 
"this delicious flower opens its virgin bosom to 
the first sunlight and perfects its being through 
the magic of that genial kiss." He says he has 
" beheld beds of them unfolding in due succes- 
sion as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to 
flower " ; and this leads Hawthorne to reflect 
that such a sight is " not to be hoped for unless 
when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper 
focus with the outward organ." We fancy that 
under these conditions their talk "gushed like 
the babble of a fountain/' as Hawthorne said it 
did when he went fishing with Ellery Channing. 
But we must not linger at the gate of the Old 
Manse indulging these dreams, for we have other 
pleasures in store. A hundred yards beyond, we 
turn into the bit of road, at right angles with 
the highway, now preserved because it was the 
scene of the famous Concord fight. A beautiful 
vista is made by the overarching of trees that 
have grown up since the battle, and in the dis- 
tance we see the Monument, the Bridge, and the 
"Minute Man." The Monument marks the spot 
where the British soldiers stood and opened fire 
on the 19th of April, 1775, while the " Minute 
Man " stands at the place where the Americans 
received their order to return the fire. The 
Monument was dedicated on the sixty-first an- 
niversary of the battle, Emerson offering his 

186 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

famous " Concord Hymn," the opening stanza 
of which, thirty-nine years later, was carved on 
the pedestal of the Minute Man, erected in com- 
memoration of the centennial of the event : — 

" By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the world." 

The bridge is of no significance. It is a recent 
structure of cement, the wooden bridge over 
which the Minute Men charged having disap- 
peared more than a century ago. 

Hawthorne took little interest in the battle- 
field, though he did express a desire to open the 
graves of the two nameless British soldiers, who 
lie buried by the roadside, because of a tale that 
one of them had been killed by a boy with an 
axe — a fiendish yarn which we may be glad is 
not authenticated. The great romancer confessed 
that the field between the battlefield and his 
house interested him far more because of the 
Indian arrow-heads and other relics he could 
pick up there — a trick he had learned from 
Thoreau. 
i On our way back to the village we made a turn 
J to the left, for a visit to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. 
Never was such a place more appropriately named. 
An elliptical bowl, bordered by grassy knolls, 
with flowering shrubs and green groves, forms a 
perfect cradle among the hills in which sleep 
- 187 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

generation after generation of the inhabitants 
of old Concord. On the opposite side of the hol- 
low, well up the slope of the hill and shaded by 
many trees, we came to the graves of the Emer- 
sons, the Thoreaus, and the Hawthornes, in neigh- 
borly proximity. The Emerson grave seemed em- 
inently satisfactory. A rough-hewn boulder at 
the foot of a tall pine marks the resting-place of 
a strong, sincere, and unpretentious character, 
who lived close to Nature. By his side lies Lidian, 
his wife, with an inscription on her tombstone, 
which few, perchance, stop to read, but which 
ought to be read by all who can appreciate this 
rare tribute to a woman's worth : — 

In her youth an unusual sense of 
the Divine Presence was granted her 

and she retained through life 
the impress of that high Communion. 

To her children she seemed in her 

native ascendancy and unquestioning 

courage, a Queen, a Flower in 

elegance and delicacy. 

The love and care for her husband and 

children was her first earthly interest 

but with overflowing compassion 

her heart went out to the slave, the sick 

and the dumb creation. She remembered 

them that were in bonds as bound with them. 

Thoreau's grave is not quite so satisfactory. 
It creates the impression that the poet and nat- 
uralist who brought fame to his family was only 

188 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

one of a considerable number of children and 
died in infancy with all the rest. It is marked 
with a small headstone and the single name, 
Henry. In the center of the lot a larger stone 
records the names of all the members of the family 
who lie buried there. 

The Hawthorne grave is wholly unsatisfactory. 
It is not easily found by a stranger, even after 
careful directions. The small lot is inclosed by an 
ugly fence, only partially concealed by a poorly 
kept hedge. By making an effort one can peep 
through and see a simple headstone with the 
name Hawthorne. The most conspicuous object 
in the inclosure is a big sign warning the public 
not to pluck the leaves, etc., and ending with the 
curt injunction, "Have respect for the living if 
not for the dead." The unsightly fence and the 
rudeness of the sign clang discordantly upon the 
sensibilities of those who have been taught to 
admire the gracious hospitality and courteous dis- 
position of the man. We came to gaze reverently 
upon the grave of a man whom we had seemed to 
know for many years as a personal friend, but 
found ourselves treated with contempt as if we 
were merely vulgar seekers for useless souvenirs ! 
Let us get back to the village and see the things 
of life. 

Next to the Old Manse, the most interesting 
house in Concord is Emerson's. It is southeast 
of the public square, at the point where the 

189 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Cambridge Turnpike joins the Lexington Road. 
When Emerson bought it in 1835, it was on the 
outskirts of the village and not prepossessing. 
He said, himself, " It is in a mean place, and can- 
not be fine until trees and flowers give it a char- 
acter of its own. But we shall crowd so many 
books and papers, and, if possible, wise friends 
into it, that it shall have as much wit as it can 
carry." In September of that year, Emerson went 
to Plymouth and was married to Miss Lydia 
Jackson, in a colonial mansion belonging to the 
bride, who suggested that they remain there. 
But Concord had charms which the poet could 
not sacrifice, so the couple established themselves 
in the big house at the southern edge of the 
village, where, ere long, the philosopher was divid- 
ing time between his study and the vegetable- 
garden, while Lidian, as her husband preferred to 
call her, set out her favorite flowers transplanted 
from the garden at Plymouth. 

The first thing that strikes your eye, as you 
pass the Emerson house, is the row of great 
horse-chestnuts shading its front. Mr. Coolidge, 
of Boston, who built the house in 1828, remem- 
bered the lofty chestnuts of his boyhood home in 
Bowdoin Square and promptly set to work to 
duplicate them when he completed his new coun- 
try house. Emerson added to his original two 
acres until he had nine, and planted an orchard 
of apple trees and pear trees, on which Thoreau 

190 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

did the grafting. " When I bought my farm," 
said Emerson, " I did not know what a bargain 
I had in the bluebirds, bobolinks, and thrushes, 
which were not charged in the bill. As little did 
I guess what sublime mornings and sunsets I 
was buying, what reaches of landscape, and what 
fields and lanes for a tramp." To appreciate the 
full extent, therefore, of Emerson's domain, we 
must next visit the favorite objective of his Sun- 
day walks, Walden Pond, only a mile or two away. 
Walden Pond is a pretty sheet of water, about 
half a mile long, completely inclosed by trees, 
which grow very near to the water's edge. I 
fancy the visitors who go there may be divided 
into two classes : first, those who go for a swim 
in the cool, deep waters, as Hawthorne liked to 
do ; and second, those who go to lay a stone 
upon the cairn that marks the site of Thoreau's 
hut. It is well worth a pilgrimage, in these days, 
to see the place where a man actually built a 
dwelling-house at a cost of $28.12J and lived in 
it two years at an estimated expense of $1.09 a 
month. One of his extravagances was a water- 
melon, costing two cents, and this was classified 
in his summary among the " Experiments which 
failed ! " The site of the hut was admirably 
chosen. It overlooks a little cove or bay, and the 
still surface of the pond, glimpses of which could 
be seen through the trees, reflecting the blue sky 
overhead, made a beautiful picture. 
^ 191 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

We must now return to the village, for there 
are two more houses to be seen, both on the Lex- 
ington Road. The first is the Alcott house, now 
restored to something like its original condition 
and preserved as a memorial to the author of 
" Little Women." A. Bronson Alcott came to 
live in Concord in 1840, having visited there for 
the first time five years earlier. Emerson at once 
hailed him as " the most extraordinary man and 
the highest genius of his time." He marveled at 
the " steadiness of his vision " before which " we 
little men creep about ashamed." The " Sage of 
Concord " was too modest and time failed to jus- 
tify his enthusiasm for the new neighbor. He 
came to admit that Alcott, though a man of 
lofty spirit, could not be trusted as to matters of 
fact ; that he did not have the power to write or 
otherwise communicate his thoughts ; and that 
he was like a gold-ore, sometimes found in Cali- 
fornia, " in which the gold is in combination with 
such other elements that no chemistry is able to 
separate it without great loss." 

Alcott was a " handy man " with tools, could 
construct fanciful summer-houses or transform a 
melodeon into a bookcase, as a piece of his handi- 
work in the " restored " house will testify. But 
in intellectual matters he fired his bullets of wis- 
dom so far over the heads of his fellow men that 
they never came down, and therefore penetrated 
nobody's brain. 

192 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

This lack of practical wisdom came near bring- 
ing disaster to the family. But his daughter came 
to the rescue with " Little Women," a book that 
has had an astonishing success from the first. 
Originally published in 1868, it has had a circu- 
lation estimated at one million copies and is still 
in demand. 

In the winter of 1862-63, Louisa M. Alcott 
marched off to war, carrying several volumes of 
Dickens along with her lint and bandages, deter- 
mined that she would not only bind up the sol- 
diers' wounds, but also relieve the tedium of their 
hospital life during the long days of convales- 
cence. When she was ready to start, Alcott said 
he was sending "his only son." Girl visitors to 
the old " Orchard house " take great delight in 
the haunts of Meg, Amy, Beth, and Joe, and 
particularly in Amy's bedroom, where the young 
artist's drawings on the doors and window-frames 
are still preserved. 

Just beyond the Alcott house is a pine grove 
on the side of a hill and then the " Wayside," 
Hawthorne's home for the last twelve years of 
his life. When Hawthorne left the Old Manse, 
he went to Salem, then to Lenox, and for a short 
time to West Newton. In the summer of 1852, 
he returned to Concord, having purchased the 
" Wayside " from Alcott. 

While living in Lenox he had written " The 
Wonder-Book," which s_o fascinated the children, 

193 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

including their elders as well, that his first task 
upon settling in the new home was to prepare, 
in response to many urgent demands, a second 
series of the same kind to be known as " The 
Tanglewood Tales." 

In the following spring the family sailed for 
Liverpool, where Hawthorne was to be the Ameri- 
can Consul, and from this journey he did not 
return until 1860, seven years later. He was 
then at the height of his fame as the author of 
" The Scarlet Letter," " The House of the Seven 
Gables," and " The Marble Faun." As soon as his 
family was settled in the Wayside, he began ex- 
tensive alterations, the most remarkable of which 
is the tower, which not only spoiled the archi- 
tecture of the building, but failed, partially at 
least, to serve its primary purpose as a study. 
It was a room about twenty feet square, reached 
by a narrow stairway where the author could 
shut himself in against all intrusion. A small 
stove made the air stifling in winter, and the sun's 
rays upon the roof made it unbearable in sum- 
mer. Nevertheless, Hawthorne managed to make 
some use of it and here he wrote " Our Old 
Home." I fancy he must have composed most of 
it while walking back and forth in the seclusion 
of the pine grove which he had purchased with 
the house. And here in this pleasant grove we 
must leave him for the present, while we go back 
to Boston and thence to Salem, to search out a 

194 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

few more old houses, which would fall into decay 
and finally disappear without notice, like hun- 
dreds of others of the same kind, but for the 
one simple fact that the touch of Hawthorne's 
presence, more than half a century ago, conferred 
upon these dingy old buildings a dignity and 
interest that draw to them annually a host of 
visitors from all parts of the United. States. 



195 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 
II 

SALEM 

On arrival at Salem we inquired of a local 
druggist whether he could direct us to any of 
the Hawthorne landmarks. He promptly pleaded 
ignorance, bat referred us to an old citizen who 
chanced to be in the store and who admitted that 
he knew all about the town, having been " born 
and raised " there. Did he know whether there 
was a real " House of Seven Gables " ? Well, he 
had heard of such a place, but it was torn down 
long ago. Could he direct us to the Custom 
House? Oh, yes, right down the street : he would 
show us the way. Any houses where Hawthorne 
had lived ? Well, no, — he had n't u followed that 
much." Had any of his family ever seen Haw- 
thorne, or spoken of him ? Yes — but he did n't 
amount to much : kind of a lazy fellow. People 
here did n't set much store by him. 

We were moving away, fearing that the old 
fellow would offer to accompany us and thereby 
spoil some of our anticipated enjoyment of the old 
houses, when he called after us — " Say, there 's 
an old house right down this street that I've 
heard had something to do with Hawthorne. I 
don't know just what, but maybe the folks there 
can tell you. It's just this side of the grave- 
yard." We thanked the old man, and following 

196 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

his directions, soon stood before an old three- 
story wooden house, with square front, big chim- 
neys, and its upper windows considerably shorter 
than those below — a type common enough in 
Salem and other New England towns. It stood 
directly on the sidewalk and had a small, inclosed 
porch, with oval windows on each side, through 
which one could look up or down the street. In 
all these details it agreed exactly with Hawthorne's 
description of the house of Dr. Grimshawe. Adjoin- 
ing it on the left was the very graveyard where 
Nat and little Elsie chased butterflies and played 
hide-and-seek among the quaint old tombstones, 
which had puffy little cherubs and doleful verses 
carved upon them. That corner room, no doubt, 
that overlooks the graveyard, was old Dr. Grim's 
study, so thickly festooned with cobwebs, where 
the grisly old monomaniac sat with his long clay 
pipe and bottle of brandy, with no better com- 
pany than an enormous tropical spider, which 
hung directly above his head and seemed at times 
to be the incarnation of the Evil One himself. 

How could Hawthorne, in his later years, con- 
ceive such horrible suggestions in connection 
with a house which must have been associated in 
his mind with the happiest memories of his life? 
For here lived the Peabody family, Dr. Nathaniel 
Peabody and his highly cultivated wife, their three 
sons, only one of whom lived to maturity, and 
their three remarkable daughters — Elizabeth 

197 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Palmer, who achieved fame as one of the fore- 
most kindergartners of America and died at a 
ripe old age ; Mary, who became the wife of 
Horace Mann; and the gentle, scholarly, and 
high-minded Sophia, who refused to come down 
to see Hawthorne, on plea of illness, the first 
time he called at the house, but fell in love with 
him at a subsequent visit. The calls were frequent 
enough after that, and before the family left the 
old house to reside in Boston, the lovers were 
engaged to be married. 

During the period of the courtship, Hawthorne 
lived with his mother and two sisters in a house 
on Herbert Street not far distant, and the two 
families came into close neighborly relations. Of 
course, we walked over to Herbert Street to find 
this house, but what remains of it has been 
remodeled into an ordinary tenement house and 
no longer resembles the house to which Sophia 
Peabody once sent a bouquet of tulips for Mr. 
Hawthorne, only to have it quietly appropriated 
by his sister Elizabeth, who thought her brother 
incapable of appreciating flowers, though she 
kindly permitted him to look at them ! In the 
rear of this building, fronting on Union Street, 
is the plain, two-story-and-a-half house, with a 
gambrel roof, where Hawthorne was born. 

When the Hawthornes returned to Salem, after 
their residence in the Old Manse, they occupied 
the Herbert Street house, with Madam Haw- 

198 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

thorne and her two daughters, Elizabeth and 
Louisa. This proved inconvenient for so large a 
family and they moved into a three-story house 
on Chestnut Street, well shaded by some fine old 
elms. This was only a temporary arrangement, 
and soon afterward, the family took a large three- 
story house on Mall Street, where the mother 
and sisters occupied separate apartments. Haw- 
thorne's study was on the third floor — near 
enough his own family for convenience, but suf- 
ficiently remote for quiet. It was to this house 
that he returned one day in dejected mood and 
announced that he had been removed from his 
position at the Custom House. "Oh! then, you can 
write your book ! " was the unexpectedly joyous 
reply of his wife, who knew that he had a story 
weighing on his mind. And then she produced 
the savings which she had carefully hoarded to 
meet just such an emergency. "The Scarlet Let- 
ter " was begun on the same day. 

It was to this same house that James T. Fields 
came in the following winter and found Haw- 
thorne in despondent mood sitting in the upper 
room huddled over a small stove. The preceding 
half-year had been the most trying period in his 
life. Discouragement over the loss of his position 
and the prospect of meager returns for his literary 
work was followed by serious pecuniary embar- 
rassment, for Mrs. Hawthorne's store of gold 
was, after all, a tiny- one. The illness and death 
199 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

of his mother had left him in a nervous state from 
the great strain of emotion, and this was followed 
by the sickness of every member of the house- 
hold, himself included. The story of how Fields 
left the house with the manuscript of " The 
Scarlet Letter" in his pocket is well known. The 
immediate success of the novel proved to be the 
tonic that restored the author to health and hap- 
piness, and when he left Mall Street in the fol- 
lowing spring he was no longer the " obscurest 
man of letters in America." 

The old Salem Custom House is the best-known 
building in the town. As we stood before it and 
looked upon the great eagle above the portico, 
with " a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and 
barbed arrows in each claw " and a " truculent 
attitude " that seemed " to threaten mischief to 
the inoffensive community," it seemed as though 
we might fairly expect the former surveyor, or 
his ghost, to open the door and walk down the 
old granite steps. 

I have already mentioned the apparent indif- 
ference toward Hawthorne of a certain old citizen 
of Salem — a feeling which characterizes a large 
part of the population, particularly those whose 
ancestors have lived longest in the town. One 
would naturally expect Salem to be proud of her 
most distinguished citizen, to delight in honoring 
him, and to extend a cordial welcome to thou- 
sands of strangers who come to pay him homage. 

200 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

Shakespeare is the principal asset of Stratford- 
on-Avon, Scott of Melrose, Burns of Ayr, and 
Wordsworth of the English Lakes. Every citizen 
is ready to talk of them. Not so of Hawthorne 
and Salem. The town is quite independent, and 
would hold up its head if there had never been 
any Hawthorne. The later generation, it is true, 
recognize his greatness, but the prejudice of the 
older families is sufficient to check any manifes- 
tation of enthusiasm. 

This old Custom House upon which we are 
looking furnishes the explanation. When Haw- 
thorne took possession as surveyor, he found 
offices ornamented with rows of sleepy officials, 
sitting in old-fashioned chairs which were tilted 
on their hind legs against the walls. These old 
gentlemen made an irresistible appeal to his 
sense of humor, such that he could scarcely have 
avoided the impulse to write a description of 
their whimsicalities. After his " decapitation " he 
yielded to the impulse and prepared in the best 
of good humor the amusing description of his 
former associates in the " Introduction " to " The 
Scarlet Letter." It brought the wrath of Salem 
upon his head. These old fellows did not fancy 
being caricatured as " wearisome old souls," who 
" seemed to have flung away all the golden grain 
of practical wisdom which they had enjoyed so 
many opportunities of harvesting, and most care- 
fully to have stored- their memories with the 

201 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

husks." Especially enraged were the family of 
the Old Inspector of whom Hawthorne said noth- 
ing worse than that he remembered all the good 
dinners he had eaten. " There were flavors on 
his palate that had lingered there not less than 
sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently 
as fresh as that of the mutton chop which he had 
just devoured for his breakfast," said Hawthorne 
with fine humor. " He called one of them a pig," 
said a Salemite to me, indignantly. 

After all, Salem never really knew Hawthorne. 
Though the town was his birthplace, he had little 
liking for it, and was seldom there. During the 
four years of his incumbency of the Custom 
House, he kept aloof from the townspeople, most 
of whom had no knowledge whatever of his liter- 
ary efforts. When the fame of "The Scarlet 
Letter " had made Hawthorne's name a familiar 
one throughout America and England, the author 
was no longer a resident of Salem, for immedi- 
ately after the publication of his first and most 
famous novel, he was glad to seek relief from 
the gloomy memories of Mall Street in the fresh 
mountain air of the Berkshires. 

Hawthorne, though apparently glad to escape, 
still allowed his thought to dwell in Salem, for in 
the same year of the completion of " The Scarlet 
Letter" and his removal to Lenox, Massachu- 
setts, he began " The House of the Seven Ga- 
bles." The identity of this house has long been 

202 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

a matter of curiosity. Three old Salem houses, 
two of which have since disappeared, have been 
pointed out as originals, the authenticity of all 
of which has been denied by George Parsons 
Lathrop, Hawthorne's son-in-law, who maintains 
that the author's statement, that he built his 
house only of "materials long in use for construct- 
ing castles in the air," must be taken literally. 

It must not be supposed that an author need 
ever describe such a building in detail or provide 
for its future identification. He may do as Scott 
often did, put the details of three or four houses 
into one structure, taking his material, not " out 
of the air," but from recollections of many places 
he has seen. It does not detract from the sup- 
posed " original" to find that the author has made 
material, even radical, departures from the orig- 
inal plan. The real point of interest is to know 
whether the old landmark suggested anything to 
the author, and if so, how much. 

To those who follow this line of reasoning, 
an old house at the foot of Turner Street, now 
commonly known as " The House of the Seven 
Gables," has many points of interest. It is a 
weather-stained old building dating back to 1669, 
and contains so many gables that you are rea- 
sonably content to accept seven as the number, 
though I believe it has eight, not counting the 
one over the rear porch, recently added. 

The identification of this house as the one 
203 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

which, more than any other, suggested to Haw- 
thorne the idea of a house o£ seven gables, rests 
upon two facts. The first is that in 1782 it came 
into the possession of Captain Samuel Ingersoll, 
whose wife was a niece of Hawthorne's grand- 
father. It passed, later, to their only surviving 
daughter, Susannah. Her portrait, which now 
hangs in the parlor of the old house, shows that, 
as a young woman, she was not unattractive. An 
unfortunate love affair caused her to withdraw 
from society and to live a life of solitude in the 
old house, from which all male visitors were rig- 
idly excluded. An exception seems to have been 
made in favor of her cousin Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
who, it is said, was a frequent visitor and lis- 
tened with interest to the legends of the house 
as told by his elder cousin. 

The second fact of identification rests upon 
more recent evidence. The building was pur- 
chased in 1908 by a generous resident of Salem 
and turned into a settlement house. This lady, 
who possesses the highest antiquarian instincts, 
determined to restore the house to its original 
form. In doing so she discovered traces of four 
gables which had been removed. These, with 
three that remained, made the desired seven, but, 
unfortunately, about the same time an old plan 
was unearthed which proved that the house at 
one time must have had eight gables ! So the 
house has been restored to its full quota of eight. 

204 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

When Hawthorne was calling there it had only 
three gables, and his elderly kinswoman must 
have told traditions of the time when it had seven 
or- eight, as, the case may be. And so the ques- 
tion of gables becomes as bewildering as Tom 
Sawyer's aunt's spoons. 

Aside from this not very profitable specula- 
tion, the house is an interesting survival of the 
time when Salem was a seaport town of some 
importance. A secret staircase has been recon- 
structed according to the recollections of the man 
who took it down a quarter of a century ago. It 
opens by a secret spring in a panel of the wall 
in the third-story front room, now known as 
" Clifford's chamber," and ascends through a 
false fireplace in the dining-room. It will be re- 
membered how Clifford mysteriously disappeared 
from his room, and as mysteriously reappeared in 
the parlor where Judge Pyncheon sat in the easy- 
chair, dead. Perhaps he came down this secret 
stairway, though Hawthorne forgot to mention it. 

A little shop, where real gingerbread "Jim 
Crows " are sold, makes the present " House of 
the Seven Gables " seem real, so that when the 
bell tinkles as you open the door, you would not 
be at all surprised if Hepzibah Pyncheon herself 
should appear, entering from the quaint little 
New England kitchen on the right. A sunny 
chamber upstairs now called " Phoebe's room," 
and a pleasant little garden in the rear, still 
205 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

further heighten the illusion and make one feel 
that if this is not the real " House of the Seven 
Gables," it certainly ought to be. 

The conditions under which " The House of the 
Seven Gables" was written were quite the reverse 
of those which brought forth " The Scarlet Let- 
ter." Instead of obscurity, ill health, and financial 
difficulties, the author was now in the full flush of 
his fame, reveling in the friendship of the most 
distinguished men of letters, enjoying the best 
of health himself, and happy in the consciousness 
that his dear wife was also well, and living amid 
the most delightful surroundings, free from care 
and taking no anxious thought for the morrow. 

The people of Salem are now preparing to make 
ample amends for any neglect of Hawthorne in 
the past. A committee of prominent citizens has 
been at work for several years upon a plan to 
erect a handsome statue upon the Common, the 
design for which has been made by a well-known 
artist, and a portion of the funds collected. With 
this monument before them, we may reasonably 
hope that future generations will be able to for- 
give the frankness which irritated their ances- 
tors, though it was kindly meant, and eventually 
open their hearts to adopt Hawthorne as their 
very own, just as Stratford does Shakespeare, 
acknowledging the full extent of their obliga- 
tion for the luster which his brilliant genius has 
shed upon their town. 

206 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

in 

PORTSMOUTH 

If Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day 
and could enter the front door of his grand- 
father's house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New 
Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange 
feeling of suddenly renewed youth, for his eyes 
would rest upon the same rooms and many of the 
same furnishings as those which greeted him in 
1849, when he returned to the old house, a lad 
of twelve, to enter upon those happy boyish ex- 
periences so pleasantly related in " The Story of 
a Bad Boy." And then, as he passed from room 
to room and gazed once more upon the old fa- 
miliar sights, he would experience a deeper and 
richer joy — a sense of pride, mingled with love 
and gratitude, for this unique and splendid trib- 
ute to his memory, from his faithful wife and 
many loyal friends. 

In the summer of 1907, following the death 
of Mr. Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of 
that year, it was suggested in a local newspaper 
of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old 
Bailey house, where "Tom Bailey" lived with 
his " Grandfather Nutter," should be purchased 
by the town and refurnished as a permanent me- 
morial to its distinguished son. The response was 
instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey Aldrich 

207 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Memorial Association was at once formed, and a 
fund of ten thousand dollars was raised by popular 
subscriptions, in sums varying from one dollar 
to one thousand dollars. The house, which had 
fallen into alien hands and had not been kept 
in good repair, was purchased and restored to 
its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave 
back all that had been taken away at the death 
of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, the 
restored house was formally dedicated by a dis- 
tinguished representation of Aldrich's friends, 
including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean 
Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Went- 
worth Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel 
L. Clemens, and many others whose names are 
well known. 

The "Nutter" house, or the "Aldrich Me- 
morial" as it is officially known, impresses one 
with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen 
memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, 
so difficult has it been to secure a sufficient num- 
ber of relics to furnish the rooms; others im- 
press me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; 
others have the cold, touch-me-not aspect of a 
museum; and some are overloaded with busts, 
pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an 
impression of the greatness of the former occu- 
pant. The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks 
as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off 
to the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigail 

208 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

and Kitty Collins, after " tidying " the rooms to 
perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the 
neighbors. The visitor has a feeling that real 
people are living there and is surprised to learn 
that at a certain hour each day the attendants go 
away and lock it up for the night. 

Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband 
took her there for the first time, as his bride, the 
old house made such a strong impression upon 
her mind that when she came to restore the place, 
many years afterward, she remembered distinctly 
where every piece of furniture used to stand. 
The perfection of her work is seen in the hun- 
dreds of little touches — the shawl thrown care- 
lessly over the back of a chair, the fan lying on 
the sofa, the books on the center table, the music 
on the old-fashioned square piano, grandfather's 
Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table, the 
embroidered coverlet in the "blue-chintz room," 
the netting over Aunt Abigail's bed, the cloth- 
ing in the closets, and even the night-clothes 
carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. 
I fancy the most loving touches of all were given 
to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey slept. 
There is the little window out of which Tom 
swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins's 
clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o'clock, 
and tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night 
before " the Fourth." The " pretty chintz cur- 
tain " may not be the one Tom knew, but it is 

209 



THE LUBE OF THE CAMERA 

very like it ; and there is a very good imitation 
of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted 
two hundred and sixty-eight birds, each individ- 
ual one of which he admired, although no such 
bird ever existed. He knew the exact number 
because he once counted them when laid up with 
a black eye and dreamed that the whole flock 
flew out of the window. The little bed has " a 
patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's 
coat," and across it lies a clean white waistcoat 
waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-mor- 
row would be Sunday. Above the head of the 
bed are the two oak shelves, holding the very 
books that Tom loved. In front of the window 
is the " high-backed chair studded with brass 
nails like a coffin," and on the right " a chest of 
carved mahogany drawers " and " a looking-glass 
in a filigreed frame." A little swallow-tailed coat, 
once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a 
chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey 
is expected home to-night ! 

Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow 
should be stormy. " Here meet together, as if by 
some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken- 
down chairs of the household, all the spavined 
tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated- 
looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that 
have retired from business, weary with the march 
of life." One slight liberty has been taken, in 
placing " The Rivermouth Theater " in one cor- 

210 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

ner of the attic, next to Kitty Collins's room, but 
this may be forgiven in view of the fact that the 
barn, where the " Theater " really was, has dis- 
appeared. 

In our anxiety to see Tom's room and the attic, 
we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. 
Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms 
with more leisure. 

In the front of the house, on the second floor, 
and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom 
occupied, is Grandfather Nutter's room. It was 
too near for Tom's convenience, and that is why 
the young gentleman lowered himself from the 
window by a rope — at least, that was the reason 
he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the 
more romantic mode of exit, although as a mat- 
ter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and 
Tom might have walked boldly downstairs with- 
out awakening him. Still he would have had to 
pass the door of Aunt Abigail's room at the head 
of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly 
appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose 
of " hot drops," which his aunt considered a cer- 
tain cure for any known ailment, from a black 
eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be 
remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain 
Nutter, who " swooped down on him," at the 
funeral of the captain's wife, " with a bandbox 
in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in 
the other." Though apparently intending to stay 

211 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

only a few days, she decided that her presence 
was indispensable to the captain, and whether he 
wished it or not she kept on staying for seven- 
teen years, and might have stayed longer had 
not death released her from the self-imposed 
duty. 

On the right of Tom's room is "the blue- 
chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never 
allowed to penetrate." But it was " thrown open 
and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with 
a bouquet of pot-roses " on the occasion of Nelly 
Glentworth's visit, and a very delightful room 
Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well 
then as it does now, under the skillful direction 
of Mrs. Aldrich. 

Across the hall from Aunt Abigail's room is 
the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking- 
chair by the window, with a Bible and candle 
conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the 
visitor every opportunity to get himself into a 
proper frame of mind before taking a plunge 
into the depths of the snow-white mountain of 
feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous 
height for his comfort. 

Descending now to the main floor (for we are 
inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual 
order), we step into the large corner room at our 
left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconso- 
lately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven 
to distraction by the monotonous click-click of 

212 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

Aunt Abigail's knitting-needles, but sometimes 
happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather 
going to sleep over his newspaper and setting 
fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he 
held in his hand. 

Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom 
open except on Sundays, and was " pervaded by a 
strong smell of center table." Here again we fancy 
Tom sitting in one corner, " crushed." All his 
favorite books are banished to the sitting-room 
closet until Monday morning. There is nothing 
to do and nothing to read except Baxter's " Saint's 
Rest." " Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, 
lightsome hearts, all are banished." It was no 
fault of the room, however, that Tom felt dole- 
ful, for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big 
brass andirons from which a wonderful amount 
of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano 
in one corner and some shelves of books in 
another were capable of providing boundless en- 
tertainment, had the room been accessible on any 
other day than Sunday. 

Passing down through the hall we enter a door 
on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remem- 
ber how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at 
the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth 
of July, by reading from the Ri vermouth " Bar- 
nacle " an account of the burning of the stage- 
coach the night before ? " Miscreants unknown," 
read the grandfather, while Tom's hair stood 
213 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

on end. "Five dollars reward offered for the 
apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho ! I hope 
Wingate will catch them," continued the old gen- 
tleman, while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And 
the sly old fox knew all about it and had already 
settled Tom's share of the damages ! 

We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which 
we ought to have visited first, as everybody else 
does. A more delightful New England kitchen 
could scarcely be imagined. This was the only 
place where Sailor Ben felt at home — and no 
wonder, for how could any room have a more in- 
viting fireplace ? Here Tom sought refuge when 
oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room 
and found relief in Kitty Collins's funny Irish 
stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole 
family around the table while he spun his yarn 
"all about a man as has made a fool of his- 
self." 

This is the delightful fact about the Nutter 
house of to-day — every room brings back memo- 
ries of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt 
Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The fur- 
nishings are so perfect that we should not have 
been surprised if any one of these old friends 
had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were con- 
centrated upon their personalities and upon " The 
Story of a Bad Boy. w The illusion is so complete 
that we scarcely gave a thought to the author 
of the tale until we entered the Memorial build- 

214 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

ing at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished 
and with him all the other ghosts of the old 
house. We stood in the presence of Thomas 
Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multi- 
tude of delightful tales, and the man of genial 
personality. Here, in a single large room, are 
brought together the priceless autographs, manu- 
scripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich 
had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the 
little table on which he wrote " The Story of a 
Bad Boy," and there are cases containing count- 
less presents, trophies, and expressions of regard 
from his friends. The walls are hung-; with manu- 
scripts, framed in connection with portraits of 
their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to 
have them. At the end of the room is a hand- 
some oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything 
tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, 
his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the 
extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. 
Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of 
the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led 
his family to bring together the material for a 
memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and 
tasteful arrangement of details. 

Even the garden in the rear of the house is 
made to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for 
here are growing all the flowers mentioned in 
his poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting 
harmoniously their richness of color in one 
215 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

graceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of 
his verse. 

After living over again the scenes of " The 
Story of a Bad Boy," in so far as they were sug- 
gested by the Nutter house, it was only natural 
that we should wish to stroll about the " Old 
Town by the Sea" in the hope of identifying 
some of the out-of-door scenes of " young Bai- 
ley's " exploits. The first house on the right, as 
we walked toward the river, is the William Pitt 
Tavern. In the early days of the Revolution it 
was an aristocratic hotel, much frequented by 
the Tories, and kept by a certain astute landlord 
named John Stavers. He had formerly kept a 
tavern on State Street, known as the " Earl of 
Halifax," and when it became necessary to move 
to the newer house in Court Street, he carried 
sign and all with him. But the patriots, whose 
resort was the old Bell Tavern, kept a jealous 
eye on the Earl of Halifax, and in 1777 attacked 
it, seriously damaging the building. Master 
Stavers, being at heart neither Tory nor patriot, 
but primarily an innkeeper, promptly changed 
both his politics and his sign. The latter be- 
came " William Pitt," in honor of the colonists' 
English friend and supporter, and the thrifty 
landlord began to entertain the leaders of the 
Revolution at his house. John Hancock, Elbridge 
Gerry, and Edward Rutledge decorated with their 
autographs the pages of his register as well as the 

216 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

Declaration of Independence. General Knox was 
a frequent visitor and Lafayette came there in 
1882. Moreover, the old tavern has had the honor 
of entertaining the last of the French kings, Louis 
Philippe, who came there with his two brothers 
during the French Revolution, and the first 
American President, who was a guest in 1789. 

All this glory had long since departed in Aid- 
rich's day, and his chief interest in the old tavern 
lay in the fact that he could climb up the dingy 
stairs to the top floor and listen for hours to the 
stories of the olden times, as told by Dame Joce- 
lyn, with whom, as she asserted, Washington had 
flirted just a little, though in a "stately and 
highly finished manner " ! 

Continuing down the street, we found the 
empty old warehouses and rotting wharves among 
which Aldrich spent so many hours of his boy- 
hood, and we took a picture of one old crumbling 
dock, which we felt sure must have been very 
like the one upon which the boys of the River- 
mouth Centipedes fired a broadside from " Bai- 
ley's Battery." The old abandoned guns, twelve 
in all, were cleaned out, loaded, provided with 
fuses, and set off mysteriously at midnight, much 
to the astonishment of the Rivermouthians, who 
thought the town was being bombarded or that 
the end of the world had come. The old wharf 
possessed a singular fascination for me because 
I still recall how vividly the incident impressed 

217 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

me in my boyhood and how fervently I envied 
Tom Bailey his unusual opportunities. Nor did 
it mar my enjoyment in the least to learn that 
the wharf I was looking at was not the right 
place, the real one, where the guns were stored, 
having been removed some time ago. It was near 
the Point of Graves, the spot where the boys 
went in bathing and where Binny Wallace's body 
was washed ashore after the ill-fated cruise of the 
Dolphin. The real Binny, by the way, was not 
drowned at all. The author, here, deviated from 
the facts to make his story more dramatic. 

Point of Graves takes its name from the old 
burying-ground, occupying a triangular space 
near the river's edge. It has quaint old tomb- 
stones dating back as far as 1682, with curious 
epitaphs, skulls, and cherubs carved upon them. 
Here is the place where Tom Bailey, disappointed 
in love and determined to become " a blighted 
being," used to lie in the long grass, speculating 
on " the advantages and disadvantages of being 
a cherub" — the disadvantages being that the 
cherub, having only a head and wings, could not 
sit down when he was tired and could not pos- 
sess trousers pockets ! 

A stroll through this part of the town, which 
in olden times was the center of its trade and 
commerce, is like walking through some of the 
old English villages. Every house, nearly, has its 
history, and I fancy the streets have not greatly 

218 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

changed their appearance since the days of Aid- 
rich's boyhood. 

On the corner of Fleet and State Streets we 
came to an old house, which has an interesting 
connection with our story. A part of it was oc- 
cupied as a candy store for nearly sixty years. 
On the Fourth of July, after Tom had treated 
the boys to root-beer, a single glass of which 
"insured an uninterrupted pain for twenty-four 
hours," they came here for ice-cream. It is said 
that one of the ringleaders subsequently cele- 
brated every third of July, until his death, by 
eating ice-cream in the same room. The story 
was based upon an incident that really happened 
in 1847, in which, of course, Aldrich could have 
had no part, as he was not then living in Ports- 
mouth. I am inclined to doubt whether the real 
event was half so delightful as the tale which 
Aldrich tells, of the twelve sixpenny ice-creams, 
" strawberry and verneller mixed," and how poor 
Tom was left to pay for the whole crowd, who 
slipped out of the window while he was in an- 
other room ordering more cream ! 

No doubt we might have coupled many other 
places in Portsmouth with " The Story of a Bad 
Boy " — for it is a very real story, though not to 
be taken literally in every detail. It is interesting 
to think of the town, also, as the scene of " Pru- 
dence Palfrey." The old Bell Tavern, where Mr. 
Dillingham boarded, ceased to exist as a public 

219 



THE LURE OP THE CAMERA 

house in 1852 and was destroyed by fire fifteen 
years later. It is pleasant also to follow Aldrich 
in a walk through the streets, with a copy of 
" An Old Town by the Sea " for a guide, and 
note all the fine old houses he so charmingly 
describes. 

But we must not devote our entire time to 
Aldrich, for an older poet has a slight claim to 
our attention. The opening scene of Longfel- 
low's " Lady Wentworth," in the " Tales of a 
Wayside Inn," is laid in State Street. 

" One hundred years ago and something more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door," — ■ 

is the way the poem opens. Queen Street was the 
old name for State Street, and the tavern was the 
old Earl of Halifax before Master Stavers carried 
the sign over to the new house in Court Street. 
It has long since disappeared. It was before this 
house that the barefooted and ragged little 
beauty, Martha Hilton, was rebuked by Dame 
Stavers for appearing on the street half-dressed 
and looking so shabby, to which she quickly 
replied : — 

" No matter how I look : I yet shall ride 
In my own chariot, ma'am." 

The house to which she did drive in her own 
chariot, many a time in later days, as the wife of 
Governor Wentworth, is one of the most pleas- 
antly situated of all the houses in Portsmouth. 

220 



LANDMARKS OP NEW ENGLAND 

It is at Little Harbor, on one of the many penin- 
sulas that jut out into the Piscataqua, below the 
town, and commands a fine view of the beautiful 
river and its many islands. The house is a large 
wooden building containing forty-five rooms, 
though originally it had fifty-two. Architectur- 
ally it is unattractive, external beauty of design 
having been sacrificed to utility. 

"Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, 
Panels and floors of oak, and tapestry ; 
Carved chimney pieces, where on brazen dogs 
Reveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs." 

The historic building, with its great Chamber 
where the Governor and his Council met for 
their deliberations, still remains in almost its 
original state. 

One could spend many days in Portsmouth in- 
vestigating its connection with the history of the 
country, from the early explorations in 1603 of 
Martin Pring and the visit in 1614 of Captain 
John Smith, down through the settlements of 
David Thomson and Captain John Mason, the 
Indian wars and massacres, the incidents of the 
Revolution, and the rise and fall of the town's 
commerce, and find plenty of old landmarks to 
give zest to the pursuit. But our search, at pres- 
ent, is for literary landmarks. We, therefore, 
take passage on the little steamer that plies to 
and from the Isles of Shoals for a pilgrimage 
to the Island Garden of Celia Thaxter. 
221 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 
IV 

THE ISLES OF SHOALS 

It is a pleasant sail down the Piscataqua, past 
the old " slumberous " wharves, where " the sun- 
shine seems to lie a foot deep in the planks " ; 
past the long bridges ; the numerous clusters of 
islands; the white sails of the yacht club, hover- 
ing like gulls about the huge battleships, moored 
to the docks of the navy yard ; the ruins of Fort 
Constitution, formerly Fort William and Mary, 
famed in history, but more interesting to us as 
the place where Prudence Palfrey came near sur- 
rendering her heart to the infamous Dillingham; 
the ancient town of Newcastle with its old-fash- 
ioned dwellings mingling with pretty new sum- 
mer cottages, the whole dominated by the white 
walls of a huge hotel ; Kittery Point, birthplace 
of Sir William Pepperell, the famous Governor 
and Indian fighter : and at last, the broad At- 
lantic, stretching to the eastward with nothing to 
obstruct the view save a few tiny specks, dimly 
visible in the distance. These are the Isles of 
Shoals, looking so small that they seem to be 
only rocks jutting a few feet above the sea, upon 
which it would be impossible to land. 

As we approach Appledore, the islands still seem 
to be only a cluster of barren rocks, with a few 
scattered buildings. The charm which they un- 

222 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

doubtedly exert upon those who come year after 
year does not immediately manifest itself to the 
stranger. He must spend a night there, breath- 
ing the pure sea air, watching in the early evening 
the glistening lights on the far-off shore, and 
finally falling asleep to dream that he is in mid- 
ocean, on one of the steadiest of steamers, enjoy- 
ing the luxury of absolute rest, for which there 
is no better prescription than an ocean voyage. 
In the morning, he must walk around the island 
— it can be done in an hour or two — threading 
the narrow paths through the huckleberry bushes 
and picking his way over the high rocks that 
present their front to the full force of the waves, 
on the side of Appledore that faces the sea. 
Here he will see artists spreading their easels and 
canvases for a day's work and less busy people 
settling down in various shady nooks, to read, to 
chat, to knit, to dream. 

To get the real spirit of the islands it 'is advi- 
sable to find one of these quiet nooks and read 
Celia Thaxter's " Among the Isles of Shoals," a 
book of sketches for which the author needlessly 
apologizes, but of which Mrs. Annie Fields says, 
" She portrays, in a prose which for beauty and 
wealth of diction has few rivals, the unfolding 
of sky and sea and solitude and untrammeled 
freedom, such as have been almost unknown to 
civilized humanity in any age of the world." 
Celia Thaxter is herself the Spirit of the Isles of 
223 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Shoals, and if we are to know and love them, we 
must take her as our guide. She will be found 
an efficient one and there is no other. 

With this purpose in mind, we began our tour 
of the islands, book in hand, stopping first at 
the cottage of Mrs. Thaxter. One room is main- 
tained somewhat as she left it, with every square 
foot of wall space covered by her pictures. But 
the flower-garden is sadly neglected. Only the 
vines that still clamber over the porch, and a 
few hollyhocks that stubbornly refuse to die, 
remain to suggest the dooryard where the garden 
flowers used to "fairly run mad with color." 
The salt air and some peculiar richness of the soil 
seem to impart unusual brilliancy to the blossoms 
and strength to the roots of all kinds of flowers, 
whether wild or cultivated. Celia Thaxter was 
one of those people for whom flowers will grow. 
They responded with blushing enthusiasm to the 
constant manifestations of her love and tender 
care. Flowers have a great deal of humanity about 
them after all. They refuse to display their real 
luxuriance for cold, careless, or indifferent people, 
just as babies and dogs know how to distinguish 
between those who love them and those who love 
only themselves. 

" More dear to me than words can tell 
"Was every cup and spray and leaf ; 
Too perfect for a life so brief 
Seemed every star and bud and bell." 

224 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

Celia Thaxter loved her flowers with a devo- 
tion born of the hours of solitude when they were 
her sole companions. " The little spot of earth on 
which they grow is like a mass of jewels. Who 
shall describe the pansies, richly streaked with 
burning gold; the dark velvet coreopsis and the 
nasturtiums; the larkspurs, blue and brilliant as 
lapis-lazuli ; the i ardent marigolds ' that flame 
like mimic suns ? The sweet peas are of a deep, 
bright rose-color, and their odor is like rich wine, 
too sweet almost to be borne, except when the 
pure fragrance of mignonette is added, — such 
mignonette as never grows on shore. Why should 
the poppies blaze in such imperial scarlet? What 
quality is hidden in this thin soil, which so trans- 
figures all the familiar flowers with fresh beauty ? " 

Unfortunately, the mysterious quality hidden 
in the soil, assisted by the warm sunshine and the 
salt air, with all their powers could not maintain 
the island garden after the loving hands of its 
owner were withdrawn, and the little inclosure is 
now a mass of weeds. 

Celia Laighton was brought to the Isles of 
Shoals as a child of five, and lived with her pa- 
rents in a little cottage on White Island where 
her father was the keeper of the lighthouse. She 
grew to womanhood in the companionship of the 
rocks, the spray of the ocean, the seaweeds, the 
shells and the miniature wild life she discovered 
among them, the tiny wild flowers which her 

225 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

sharp young eyes could find in the most secret 
crannies, and the marigolds, "rich in color as 
barbaric gold," which she early learned to culti- 
vate in " a scrap of garden literally not more than 
a yard square." She shouted a friendly greeting to 
the noisy gulls and kittiwakes that fluttered over- 
head, chased the sandpipers along the gravelly 
beach, made friends and neighbors of the crabs, 
the sea-spiders and land-spiders, the sea-urchins, 
the grasshoppers and crickets, and set in motion 
armies of sandhoppers, that jumped away like tiny 
kangaroos when she lifted the stranded seaweed. 
And then the birds came to see her. The swal- 
lows gathered fearlessly upon the window-sills 
and built their nests in the eaves, seeming to 
know that the loving eyes watching their move- 
ments could mean no evil. Now and then a bob- 
olink, an oriole, or a scarlet tanager would be 
seen. The song sparrows came in flocks to be 
fed every morning. With them, at times, came 
robins and blackbirds, and occasionally yellow- 
birds and kingbirds. Sometimes, in hazy weather, 
they would fly against the glass of the lighthouse 
with fatal results. " Many a May morning," says 
Mrs. Thaxter, " have I wandered about the rock 
at the foot of the tower mourning over a little 
apron brimful of sparrows, swallows, thrushes, 
robins, fire- winged blackbirds, many-colored yel- 
lowbirds, nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple 
finch and scarlet tanager and golden oriole, and 

226 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

many more beside — enough to break the heart 
of a small child to think of." 

It is no wonder that such a sympathetic soul 
could even summon the birds to keep her com- 
pany — as she frequently did with the loons. " I 
learned to imitate their different cries ; they are 
wonderful ! At one time the loon language was 
so familiar that I could almost always summon 
a considerable flock by going down to the water 
and assuming the neighborly and conversational 
tone which they generally use : after calling a 
few minutes, first a far-off voice responded, then 
other voices answered him, and when this was 
kept up a while, half a dozen birds would come 
sailing in. It was the most delightful little party 
imaginable ; so comical were they that it was im- 
possible not to laugh aloud." 

To her love of birds and flowers, Mrs. Thaxter 
added a love of the sea itself, finding delight 
equally in the sparkle of the calm waves of sum- 
mer or the wild beating of the surf in winter. 
She developed a marvelous ear for the music of 
the sea — something akin to that which enables 
John Burroughs to name a bird correctly from 
its notes, even when the songster is trying to 
imitate the call of another bird as the little im- 
postors sometimes do. She says : " Who shall 
describe that wonderful voice of the sea among 
the rocks, to me the most suggestive of all the 
sounds in nature? Each island, every isolated 
227 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

rock, has its own peculiar note, and ears made deli- 
cate by listening, in great and frequent peril, can 
distinguish the bearings of each in a dense fog." 

Equally well did she know humanity. The 
daily life of the fishermen, the kind and quan- 
tity of the fish they caught, the adventures they 
experienced, the stories they told, the hardships 
they endured, the little domestic tragedies that 
now and then took place in their humble cot' 
tages, the sufferings from illness or accident, 
were all matters of everyday knowledge to her 
and enlisted her profound sympathy. 

Everything in nature appealed to her — the 
sea and sky, the sunrise and the sunset, the 
winds and storms, the birds and flowers, the but- 
terflies and insects, the seashells and kelp, the 
fishes and all the lower forms of life — all were 
objects of careful observation in which she took 
delight ; and to these must be added a deep in- 
terest in humanity, particularly of the kind which 
she met in fishermen's cottages, where her good 
common sense and knowledge of simple remedies 
enabled her to render, again and again, a serv- 
ice in time of need when no other assistance 
could be obtained. 

Such was the unique character whose spirit 
dominates the islands even to-day, — a lover of 
nature worthy to stand with Gilbert White, 
Thoreau, or Burroughs, a poet, an artist, a 
friendly neighbor, and a womanly woman. 

228 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

It was a part of our good fortune to have the 
actual guidance in our tour of the islands of 
the only surviving brother of Mrs. Thaxter, Mr. 
Oscar Laighton. In his little motor boat he took 
us to the tiny island known as Londoners, where 
for many winters he was the sole inhabitant. 
Although advancing years have now made it 
inexpedient for him to live in solitude, the little 
cottage still remains ready for occupancy at any 
moment. We stopped inside expecting to see, in 
so desolate a spot, only such rude furnishings 
as might be found in some mountain cabin or 
hunter's lodge. To our astonishment we found 
it a veritable little bower, a model of neatness 
and order, and every room, including the kitchen, 
filled with well-chosen pictures and books, as 
though some dainty fairy, of literary tastes, had 
planned it for her permanent abode. Among the 
highly prized ornaments were many pieces of 
china, painted by Mrs. Thaxter. To our minds, 
the most valuable article in the house — valua- 
ble because of the lesson it teaches — is a type- 
written card, hanging conspicuously over the 
kitchen stove, with this cordial greeting to the 
uninvited guest: — 

" Welcome to any one entering this house in ship- 
wreck or trouble. You will find matches in the box 
on the mantel. The key to the wood-house is in this 
box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself com- 
fortable. There are some cans of food on shelf in the 

229 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

pantry. Blankets will be found in the chamber on 
lower floor. There is a dory ready to launch in the 
boat-house." 

Three times have shipwrecked men entered the 
house and taken advantage of this kindly wel- 
come. 

Our next visit was to White Island, where, 
after much difficulty in getting ashore, we 
climbed to the top of the lighthouse. This is a 
very different structure from the old wooden 
building of Celia Thaxter's childhood and only 
a small part of the original dwelling remains. 
But the landing is very much as she describes 
it. " Two long and very solid timbers about 
three feet apart are laid from the boat-house to 
low-water mark, and between those timbers the 
boat's bow must be accurately steered. . . . 
Safely lodged in the slip, as it is called, she is 
drawn up into the boat-house by a capstan, and 
fastened securely." Our boat was not drawn up, 
and we had to walk up the steep, slippery planks 
— with what success I shall not attempt to de- 
scribe. Here, at night, the little Celia used to 
sit, with a lantern at her feet, waiting in the 
darkness, without fear, for the arrival of her 
father's boat, knowing that the " little star was 
watched for, and that the safety of the boat de- 
pended in a great measure upon it." 

Haley's Island, or " Smutty Nose," as it was 
long ago dubbed by the sailors because of its long 

230 



LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND 

projecting point of black rocks, lies between Ap- 
pledore and Star Island. Of the two houses now 
remaining, one is the original cottage of Samuel 
Haley, an energetic and useful citizen, who once 
owned the island. Nearby fourteen rude and 
neglected graves tell a pathetic tale. The Spanish 
ship Sagunto was wrecked on Smutty Nose, dur- 
ing a severe snowstorm on a January night. The 
shipwrecked sailors saw the light in Haley's cot- 
tage and crept toward it, benumbed with cold 
and overcome with the horror and fatigue of 
their experience. Two reached the stone wall in 
front of the house, but were too weak to climb 
over, and their bodies were discovered the next 
morning, frozen to the stones. Twelve other 
bodies were found scattered about the island. 
How gladly the old man would have given these 
poor sailors the warmth and comfort of his home 
could he have known the tragedy that was hap- 
pening while he slept soundly only a few yards 
away ! 

Star Island, once the site of the village of 
Gosport, was in early days the most important of 
the group. Before the Revolution a settlement 
of from three to six hundred people carried on 
the fisheries of the island, catching yearly three 
or four thousand quintals of fish. All this busi- 
ness is now a thing of the past. The great shoals 
of mackerel and herring, from which the islands 
took their name, have disappeared — driven away 

231 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

or killed by the steam trawlers. The old families 
departed long since, and new ones have never 
come to take their places, save a few lobster fish- 
ermen, who with difficulty eke out a bare living. 
A quaint little church of stone is perched upon 
the highest rocks of Star Island, but I fear the 
attendance is small, even in the summer time. 

We found our way back to Appledore, con- 
tent to spend the remaining days of our visit on 
this the largest and most inviting of the group. 

" A common island, you will say ; 
But stay a moment ; only climb 
Up to the highest rock of the isle, 
Stand there alone for a little while, 
And with gentle approaches it grows sublime, 
Dilating slowly as you win 
A sense from the silence to take it in." 

Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the 
islands is felt when you stand on " the highest 
rock of the isle," looking out upon the ever 
sparkling sea that stretches 

" Eastward as far as the eye can see — ■ 
Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly " ; 

and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I 
fancy Celia Thaxter stood upon this rock when 
she sang — 

" Earth ! thy summer song of joy may soar 
Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave 
The sad, caressing murmur of the wave 
That breaks in tender music on the shore." 



VIII 
A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 



VIII 
A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

OH, everybody here calls him Uncle John," 
was the quick reply to one of my queries 
of the man who drove me to the country house of 
John Burroughs, near Roxbury, New York. He 
had been saying many pleasant things about 
the distinguished naturalist, dwelling particularly 
upon his kind heart and genial nature. I noticed 
that he never referred to him as "Dr." Bur- 
roughs, nor "Mr." Burroughs, nor even as " Bur- 
roughs," but always as " John " or " good old 
John," or most often, " Uncle John." So I asked 
by what name the people called him, and the 
answer seemed to me the most sincere compli- 
ment that could have been paid. 

When a man has received many honorary de- 
grees which the great universities have felt proud 
to confer, it is an indication that those most com- 
petent to judge have appreciated his intellectual 
attainments or public services, or both. When 
the people of his native village bestow upon him 
the title of " Uncle," it is an indication that the 
achievement of fame has not eclipsed the lovable 
qualities in his character nor dimmed the affec- 
tionate regard of the neighbors who have learned 

235 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

to know him as a man. There is a certain friend- 
liness implied in the title of " Uncle," while it 
also suggests respect. If you live in a small town 
you call everybody by his first name. But one 
of your number becomes famous. To call him 
"John" seems too familiar. It implies that you 
do not properly appreciate his attainments. To 
call him "Mister" or "Doctor" seems to make 
a stranger of him, and you would not for the 
world admit that he is not still your friend. 
"Uncle" is often a happy compromise, parti- 
cularly if he still retains the neighborly qualities 
of his less distinguished years. 

I do not know that the people of Roxbury 
ever followed this line of reasoning, but it does 
seem quite appropriate that they should call 
their most distinguished fellow citizen " Uncle 
John." He was born on a farm near this little 
village in the Catskills on the 3d of April, 1837, 
in the very time of the return of the birds. Per- 
haps this is why he is so fond of them and par- 
ticularly of Robin Redbreast, that fine old-fash- 
ioned democrat, who is one of his prime favorites. 
He spent his boyhood here, and now, in the 
fullness of his years, quietly returns each sum- 
mer to the old familiar haunts, living the same 
simple life as of yore, except that the pen is now 
his tool instead of the farming implements. 

The little red schoolhouse, where Burroughs 
and Jay Gould went to school together, may still 

236 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

be seen in the valley, standing in the open coun- 
try with one of those rounded hill-tops in the 
background which form the characteristic feature 
of the Catskills. Near by is the Gould birthplace, 
now a comfortable-looking farmhouse, glistening 
with a fresh coat of white paint. " Take away 
the porch and the back extension, and the top 
story and the paint," said my driver, "and you 
will have the original ' birthplace.' ' He said 
that when he first began the livery business in 
Roxbury many people came to see the birthplace 
of Jay Gould, but no one mentioned Burroughs. 
Now it is just the other way, and the number of 
visitors increases yearly, all anxious to see the 
home of the famous philosopher. Yet these two 
men, one of whom seems to have belonged to 
the generations of the past while the other is a 
part of the ever- living present, were boys to- 
gether in the same schoolhouse more than sixty 
years ago. 

As my conveyance drew up to the door, Mr. 
Burroughs came out with a hearty welcome. He 
was alone, for during the summer, when he retires 
to this place for work, he prefers to do his own 
housekeeping in his own way. " I am a good 
cook," said he, " but a poor housekeeper." I did 
not agree with the latter part of the statement, for 
as I looked around I thought he had about all 
he needed and everything was clean. Moreover, 
things were where he could get at them, and 

237 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

from a man's point of view what better house- 
keeping could anybody want? 

The house which he now occupies is a plain- 
looking farmhouse, built in 1869 by Mr. Bur- 
roughs's elder brother. Its most distinctive fea- 
ture is the rustic porch, a recent addition, which 
serves the purposes of living-room, library, and 
bedroom. Mr. Burroughs is a believer in fresh 
air and during the summer likes to sleep out of 
doors. He has a rustic table, covered with favor- 
ite books. When he is not at work, he likes to 
sit on the porch and enjoy what he calls " the 
peace of the hills." Across the road there is a 
field, broad and long and crossed by numerous 
stone walls. In the distance are the hills of his 
well-loved Catskills, their smoothly undulating 
lines giving a sense of repose. At the right of 
the house I noticed a small patch of green corn, 
in front of which were some rambling cucumber 
vines. In the rear and at the left were a few old 
apple trees, and farther back, capping the sum- 
mit of a ridge, a fine grove of trees, standing in 
orderly array, like an army ready for action. 
Mr. Burroughs has named the place, in charac- 
teristic fashion, "Woodchuck Lodge," "be- 
cause," he said, " I can sit here and count the 
woodchucks, sometimes eight or ten at a time." 

Not wishing to interfere with his plans, I 
expressed the hope that I was not interrupting 
him, when he quickly replied, " 0, my work for 

238 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

to-day is all done. I rise at six and usually do all 
my writing before noon." " You are like Sir 
Walter Scott, then," said I, "who always began 
early and, as he said, l broke the neck of the day's 
work ' before the family came down to breakfast 
and was l his own man before noon.' " "Ah, he 
was a wonderful man," replied Mr. Burroughs. 
Then, after a pause and with a little sigh — "I 
wish I could invest these hills with romance as 
he did the hills of Scotland." "But you have 
invested them with romance," I said, " although 
of a different kind." " Yes," he replied, with 
brightening eyes, " with the romance of humanity 
and of nature, the only kind to which they are 
entitled." 

I could not help thinking how wonderfully like 
Wordsworth this seemed. The romance of hu- 
manity and nature ! Is it not this, which, since 
Wordsworth's time, has given a new charm to the 
hills and valleys of Westmoreland and Cumber- 
land, causing every visitor to seek the dwelling- 
places of the poet? And are not those who spend 
their summers in the Catskills finding a new de- 
light in those beautiful mountains because of the 
spell which John Burroughs has thrown upon 
them? 

Wordsworth wrote the history of his own mind 
and called it " The Prelude," intending it to be 
but the introduction to a greater poem to be en- 
titled " The Recluse," which should be a broad 
239 



THE LURE OP THE CAMERA 

presentation of his views on Man, Nature, and 
Society. " The Excursion" was to be the second 
part, but the third was never written. He con- 
ceived that this great work would be like a Gothic 
church, the main body of which would be repre- 
sented by "The Recluse," while "The Prelude" 
would be but the ante-chapel. All his other 
poems, when properly arranged, would then be 
" likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepul- 
chral recesses, ordinarily included in those edi- 
fices." 

Burroughs is far too modest to compare his 
writings to a cathedral, but he has nevertheless, 
like Wordsworth, written himself into nearly all 
of them. Following the English poet's simile 
in a modified form, we may think of the product 
of his pen, not as a cathedral, but as a mansion 
of many rooms, each furnished with beautiful 
simplicity and charming taste to represent some 
different phase of the author's mind, and each 
equipped, so to speak, with a mirror, possessing all 
the magic but without the unpleasant duty of the 
one in Hawthorne's tale, so arranged as to reflect 
the very soul of its builder with perfect fidelity. 

So sincere is Burroughs that you feel certain 
he is constantly revealing his true self. There- 
fore, when he praises Wordsworth as the English 
poet who has touched him more closely than any 
other, you begin to realize the bond of sympathy. 
When he says that Wordsworth's poetry has the 

240 



A DAY WTIH JOHN BURROUGHS 

character of "a message, special and personal 
to a comparatively small circle of readers," you 
know that he is one of the few who have taken 
the message to heart. 

Wordsworth's love of Nature was of the same 
kind as the American poet's. "Nature," says 
Burroughs, " is not to be praised or patronized. 
You cannot go to her and describe her; she must 
speak through your heart. The woods and fields 
must melt into your mind, dissolved by your love 
for them. Did they not melt into Wordsworth's 
mind ? They colored all his thoughts ; the soli- 
tude of those green, rocky Westmoreland fells 
broods over every page. He does not tell us how 
beautiful he finds Nature, and how much he 
enjoys her ; he makes us share his enjoyment." 
Substitute Burroughs for Wordsworth, and Cats- 
kill for Westmoreland, and you have in this 
passage a fine statement of the reason why John 
Burroughs is winning the gratitude of more and 
more people every year. 

Wordsworth thought of Nature as an all-per- 
vading Presence, something mysterious and sub- 
lime, a supreme Being, — 

" The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral heing." 

Burroughs does not rise to such ethereal 
heights, but recognizes that the passion for 
Nature is " a form of, or closely related to, our 

241 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

religious instincts." He lives closer to Nature 
than Wordsworth ever did. His knowledge of 
her secrets is far deeper and more intimate. He 
is a naturalist and scientist, as well as a man of 
poetic temperament. He has a trained eye that 
sees what others would miss. " There is a great 
deal of byplay going on in the life of Nature 
about us," he says, u a great deal of variation 
and outcropping of individual traits, that we 
entirely miss unless we have our eyes and ears 
open." 

Probably no other man has a keener ear for the 
music of the birds. He possesses that " special 
gift of grace," to use his own expression, that 
enables one to hear the bird-songs. Not only can 
he distinguish the various species by their songs, 
but he instantly recognizes a new note. He once 
detected a robin, singing with great spirit and 
accuracy the song of the brown thrasher, and on 
another occasion followed a thrush for a long 
time because he recognized three or four notes 
of a popular air which the bird had probably 
learned from some whistling shepherd boy. He 
loves to put words into the mouths of the birds 
to fit their songs and to fancy conversations be- 
tween husband and wife upon their nest. The 
sensitiveness of his ear for bird-music is wonder- 
fully illustrated in his story of a new song which 
he heard on Slide Mountain in the Catskills. 
" The moment I heard it, I said, ( There is a new 

242 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

bird, a new thrush,' for the quality of all the 
thrush songs is the same. A moment more and 
I knew it was Bicknell's thrush. The song is in 
a minor key, finer, more attenuated, and more 
under the breath than that of any other thrush. 
It seemed as if the bird was blowing into a deli- 
cate, slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute- 
like and resonant the song appeared. At times it 
was like a musical whisper of great sweetness and 
power." I do not believe that Wordsworth or 
any other poet, however passionate his love of 
Nature, ever heard such a bird-song or could 
describe its qualities with so keen a discernment. 
Mr. Burroughs made me think of Wordsworth 
again when, as we sat looking over toward the 
Catskills, he explained his residence at Wood- 
chuck Lodge by referring to his enjoyment of 
the open country and the peace and quiet of the 
scene. For, says Wordsworth, — 

" What want we ? Have we not perpetual streams, 
Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields 
And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds 
And thickets full of songsters, and the voice 
Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve, 
Admonishing the man who walks below 
Of solitude and silence in the sky ? " 

After an hour of pleasant conversation my 
host arose, saying he would build his fire and we 
would have our dinner. In due course we sat 

243 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

down to a repast that would have gladdened the 
heart of General Grant himself. The old veteran, 
as many will remember, after his return from a 
tour of triumph around the world, in which he 
had been banqueted by kings and emperors, 
dukes, millionaires, and public societies, once 
slipped into a farmer's kitchen for a dinner of 
corned beef and cabbage, declaring that he was 
glad to get something good to eat. Our meal did 
not consist of corned beef and cabbage, but 
of corn cakes, made of fresh green corn plucked 
not a couple of yards from the kitchen door 
and baked on a griddle by one of the foremost 
literary men of America. There were other 
good things, plenty of them, but those delicious 
cakes with maple syrup of the genuine kind ex- 
actly "touched the spot," as old-fashioned folks 
used to say. Mine host must have noticed the 
unusual demands upon his crop of corn and mar- 
veled to see the rapid disappearance of the cakes, 
but he did not seem displeased. On the contrary, 
as he brought in, time after time, a fresh pile of 
the steaming flapjacks, his face beamed with the 
smile that betokens genuine hospitality. Our con- 
versation at table was mostly on politics, in which 
Mr. Burroughs takes keen interest and upon 
which he is a man of decided convictions; but 
this is a subject which he must be allowed to 
elucidate in his own way. 

After dinner, Mr. Burroughs laughingly re- 
244 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

marked that his study was the barn, and we 
walked up the road to visit it. " I cannot bear to 
be cramped by the four walls of a room/' said he, 
" so I have moved out to the barn. I enjoy it 
greatly. The birds and the small animals come to 
see me every day and often sit and talk with me. 
The woodchucks and chipmunks, the blue jays 
and the hawks, all look in at me while I am at 
work. A red squirrel often squats on the stone 
wall and scolds me, and the other day an old gray 
rabbit came. He sat there twisting his nose like 
this " (here Mr. Burroughs twisted his own nose 
in comical fashion), " and seemed to be saying — 

' By the pricking of my thumbs 
Something wicked this way comes.' " 

Arrived at the barn, Mr. Burroughs seated him- 
self at his " desk." With twinkling eyes he ex- 
plained that it was an old hencoop. The inside 
was stuffed with hay to keep his feet warm, and 
if the weather happens to be chilly, he wears a 
blanket over his shoulders. A market-basket con- 
tains his manuscript and a few books complete 
the equipment. The desk is just inside the wide- 
open doors of the barn, and he sits with his face 
to the light. " There is a broad outlook from a 
barn door," said he, smilingly. 

Beyond the low stone wall, where his animal 
friends seat themselves for the daily conversa- 
tions, is an apple orchard, and in the distance are 
245 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

the rounded summits of the Catskills — a view 
as peaceful and refreshing as the one from the 
house. Here Mr. Burroughs is never lonely. One 
day a junco, or slate-colored snowbird, came on 
a tour of inspection. She decided to build her 
nest in the hay. She scorned all the materials so 
close at hand and brought everything from out- 
side. Her instinct had taught her to find certain 
materials for a nest, and she could not suddenly 
learn to make use of the convenient hay. Mr. 
Burroughs, in speaking of this, told me of a 
phcebe who built her nest over the window of his 
house. She brought moss to conceal it, but as the 
moss did not match the color of the house, she 
succeeded only in making her nest more conspicu- 
ous. Since the evolution of the species, phcebes 
have built their nests on the sides of cliffs, using 
moss of the color of the rocks to conceal them. 
The little bird who, like the junco, followed her 
instincts, failed to note the difference between 
the house and the roeks. 

In conversation of this kind, Mr. Burroughs 
turned the hours into minutes, and I was sur- 
prised to look up and see the team approaching 
which was to carry me away. After a reluctant 
farewell, we drove over the brow of a hill and 
stopped for a few moments before the farmhouse 
which was the birthplace of John Burroughs. A 
comical incident took place. It was raining hard 
when we arrived and we drove into the barn, 

246 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

directly across the road from the house. An old 
dog and a young one were here, keeping them- 
selves dry from the shower. I set up my camera 
in the barn, to take a picture of the house. As I 
did so, I noticed the old dog walk deliberately 
out in the rain and perch himself upon the door- 
step, where he turned around once or twice as if 
trying to strike the right attitude. This point 
determined, he stood perfectly still until I had 
taken the picture, and when I started to put 
away the camera, came trotting back to the barn. 
I do not know what instinct, if any, prompted the 
dog to wish his picture to be taken, but he was no 
more foolish than many people, — men, women, 
and children, — who have insisted upon getting 
into my pictures, though they knew there was no 
possibility of their ever seeing them. 

Mr. Burrough's permanent home is at West 
Park, on the Hudson River, a few miles south of 
Kingston. Here he has a farm mostly devoted to 
the cultivation of grapes. He occupies a comfort- 
able stone house, pleasantly situated and nearly 
surrounded by trees of various kinds. Back of the 
house and near the river is the study or den, a 
little rustic building on the slope of the hill, 
where Mr. Burroughs can write undisturbed by 
the business of the farm. The walls are partly 
lined with bookshelves, well crowded with favor- 
ite volumes. Near by is a small rustic summer 
house from which a^delightful view of the river 

247 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

may be seen for miles to the north and to the 
south. This is why the place is called " Riverby " 
— simply " by-the-river." It has been the author's 
home for many years. 

Even the study, however, did not satisfy Mr. 
Burroughs's longing for quiet, and so he built 
another retreat about a mile and a half west 
of the village which he calls " Slabsides." It is 
reached by walking up a hill and passing through 
a bit of hemlock woods which I found quite 
charmiDg. Slabsides is a rustic house like many 
camps in the Adirondacks. It is roughly built, 
but sufficiently comfortable, and has a pleasant 
little porch, at the entrance to which a climbing 
vine gives a picturesque effect which is greatly 
enhanced by a stone chimney, now almost com- 
pletely clothed with foliage. It is in an out-of- 
the-way hollow of the woods where nobody would 
be likely to come except for the express purpose 
of visiting Mr. Burroughs. For several summers 
this was his favorite retreat. He would walk over 
from his home at Riverby and stay perhaps two 
or three weeks at a time, doing his own cooking 
and housekeeping. Of late years, however, Slab- 
sides has been less frequently used, Woodchuck 
Lodge having received the preference. 

All of these abodes, whether you see them 
within or without, reveal the secret of John Bur- 
roughs's strength. They coincide with his per- 
sonal appearance, his dress, his conversation, his 

248 



A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS 

manner. It is the strength of absolute simplic- 
ity. Everything is sincere. Nothing is superflu- 
ous. There is no such thing as " putting on airs." 
Fame and popularity have not spoiled him. He 
is genuine. You feel it when you see his work- 
shops. You know it when you meet the man. 

Mr. Charles Wagner, the apostle of " the sim- 
ple life," has said, "All the strength of the 
world and all true joy, everything that consoles, 
that feeds hope, or throws a ray of light along 
our dark paths, everything that makes us see 
across our poor lives a spendid goal and a bound- 
less future, comes to us from people of simplic- 
ity, those who have made another object of their 
desires than the passing satisfaction and vanity, 
and have understood that the art of living is to 
know how to give one's life." 

John Burroughs is one of these "people of 
simplicity," and his contribution to our happi- 
ness lies in his rare power of bringing to his 
reader something of his own enjoyment of Na- 
ture — an enjoyment which he has been able to 
obtain only through the living of a simple life. 
He is the complete embodiment of Emerson's 
" forest seer " : — 

" Many haps fall in the field 
Seldom seen by wishful eyes ; 
But all her shows did Nature yield, 
To please and win this pilgrim wise. 
He saw the partridge drum in the woods ; 
249 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

He heard the woodcock's evening hymn ; 
He found the tawny thrushes' hroods ; 
And the shy hawk did wait for him ; 
What others did at distance hear, 
And guessed within the thicket's gloom, 
Was shown to this philosopher 
And at his bidding seemed to come." 



IX 

GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 



IX 

GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

THE Yellowstone National Park is Nature's 
jewel casket, in which she has kept her 
choicest gems for countless generations. Securely 
sheltered by ranges of rugged mountains they 
have long been safe from human depredations. 
The red man doubtless knew of them, but super- 
stition came to the aid of Nature and held him 
awe-struck at a safe distance. The first white man 
who came within sight of these wonders a cen- 
tury ago could find no one to believe his tales, 
and for a generation or two the region of hot 
springs and boiling geysers which he described 
was sneeringly termed " Colter's Hell." Only 
within the last half-century have the generality 
of mankind been permitted to view these pre- 
cious jewels, and even then jealous Nature, it 
would seem, did not consent to reveal her treas- 
ures until fully assured that they would have the 
protection of no less powerful a guardianship 
than that of the National Government. 

On the 18th of September, 1870, a party of ex- 
plorers, headed by General Henry D. Washburn, 
then Surveyor-General of Montana, emerged from 
the forest into an open plain and suddenly found 
- 253 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

themselves not one hundred yards away from a 
huge column of boiling water, from which great 
rolling clouds of snow-white vapor rose high into 
the air against the blue sky. It was " Old Faith- 
ful " in action. Then and there they resolved that 
this whole region of wonders should be made into 
a public park for the benefit of all the people, 
and renouncing any thought of securing the 
lands for personal gain, these broad-minded men 
used their influence to have the National Congress 
assume the permanent guardianship of the place. 
And now that protection is fully assured these 
jewels of Nature may be seen by you and me. 

Those who have traveled much will tell vou 
that Nature is prodigal of her riches, and, indeed, 
this would seem to be true to one who has spent 
a summer among the snow-clad peaks of the Alps, 
or dreamed away the days amid the blue lakes of 
northern Italy, or wandered about in the green 
forests of the Adirondacks, where every towering 
spruce, every fragrant balsam, every dainty wild 
flower and every mossy log is a thing of beauty. 
But these are Nature's full-dress garments, just 
as the broad-spreading wheatfields of the Dakotas 
are her work-a-day clothes. Her " jewels " are 
safely locked up in places more difficult of ac- 
cess, where they may be seen by only a favored 
few ; and one of these safe-deposit boxes, so to 
speak, is the Yellowstone National Park. 

The first collection of these natural gems is at 
254 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

Mammoth Hot Springs, and here my camera, as 
if by instinct, led me quickly to the daintiest in 
form and most delicate in colorings of them all, 
a beautiful formation known as Hymen Terrace. 
A series of steps, covering a circular area of per- 
haps one hundred feet in diameter, has been 
formed by the overflow of a hot spring. The 
terraces consist of a series of semicircular and 
irregular curves or scallops, like a combination 
of hundreds of richly carved pulpits, wrought in 
a soft, white substance resembling coral. Little 
pools of glistening water reflect the sunlight from 
the tops of the steps, while a gently flowing 
stream spreads imperceptibly over about one half 
the surface, sprinkling it with millions of dia- 
monds as the altar of Hymen ought to be. The 
pools are greens and blues of many shades, vary- 
ing with the depth of the water. The sides of the 
steps are pure white in the places where the water 
has ceased to flow, but beneath the thin stream 
they range in color from a rich cream to a deep 
brown, with all the intermediate shades harmo- 
niously blended. From the highest pools, and 
especially from the largest one at the very sum- 
mit of the mound, rise filmy veils of steam, soft- 
ening the exquisite tints into a rich harmony of 
color against the azure of the sky. 

The Terrace of Hymen is the most exquisite 
of the formations, but there are others much 
larger and more magnificent. Minerva Terrace 

255 



THE LURE OP THE CAMERA 

gave me a foreground for a charming picture. 
Beyond its richly colored steps and sparkling 
pools were the splendid summits of the Gallatin 
Range towering more than ten thousand feet 
above the level of the sea and seeming, in the 
clear mountain air, to be much nearer than they 
really are. Hovering above their peaks were piles 
upon piles of foamy clouds, through which could 
be seen a background of the bluest of skies, 
while down below were the gray stone buildings 
with their bright red roofs that form the head- 
quarters of the army guarding the park. 

Jupiter Terrace, the most imposing of all these 
formations, extends a quarter of a mile along the 
edge of a brilliantly colored mound, rising about 
three hundred feet above the plain upon which 
Fort Yellowstone is built. Pulpit Terrace, on 
its eastern slope, reproduces upon a larger scale 
the rich carvings and exquisite tints of Hymen, 
though without the symmetry of structure. The 
springs at its summit are among the most strik- 
ingly beautiful of these unique formations which 
I like to call the " jewels " of Nature. Two large 
pools of steaming water lie side by side, appar- 
ently identical in structure, and separated only 
by a narrow ridge of lime. The one on the 
left is a clear turquoise blue, while its neigh- 
bor is distinctly Nile green. Surrounding these 
springs are several smaller pools, one a rich 
orange color, another light brown, and a third 

256 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

brown of a much darker hue. The edges of all 
are tinted in yellow, brown, and gold of varied 
shades. The pools are apparently all a part of 
the same spring or group of springs, and subject 
to the same conditions of light ; yet I noticed at 
least five distinct colors in as many pools. The 
water itself is colorless and the different hues 
must be imparted by the colorings of the lime 
deposits, influenced by the varying depth and 
temperature of the water. 

What is known as " the formation " of the 
Mammoth Hot Springs covers perhaps fifty or 
sixty acres on the slope of Terrace Mountain. It 
is a heavy deposit of lime or travertine, essen- 
tially the same as the stalagmites and stalactites 
which one sees in certain caverns. When dry it 
is white and soft like chalk. The colorings of 
the terraces are of vegetable origin, caused by a 
thin, velvety growth, botanically classed as algae, 
which flourishes only in warm water. The heat 
of rocks far beneath the surface warms the water 
of the springs, which, passing through a bed of 
limestone, brings to the surface a deposit of pure 
calcium carbonate. Wherever the flow of water 
remains warm the algae appear and tint the grow- 
ing formation with as many shades of brown as 
there are varying temperatures of the water. 
When the water is diverted, as is likely to hap- 
pen from one season to the next, the algae die 
and the surfaces become a chalky white. 
257 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

Leaving the Hot Springs, the road passes 
through the Golden Gate, where, on one side, a 
perpendicular wall of rock rises to a height of 
two hundred feet or more, and on the other are 
the wooded slopes and rocky summit of Bunsen 
Peak — a beautiful canon, where the view sug- 
gests the greater glories of Swiss mountain scen- 
ery, but for that very reason is not to be men- 
tioned here among the rare gems of the park. 
Nor shall I include the "Hoodoos," which, 
though distinctly unusual, are far from beauti- 
ful. An area of many acres is covered with huge 
fragments of massive rocks, piled in disorderly 
confusion, as though some Cyclops, in a fit of 
ugly temper, had torn away the whole side of a 
mountain and scattered the pieces. Through 
these rocks project the whitened trunks of thou- 
sands of dead trees, — a sort of ghostly night- 
mare through which we were glad to pass as 
quickly as possible. 

We stopped for lunch at the Norris Geyser 
Basin, and here saw some miniature geysers, as 
a kind of preparation for the greater ones be- 
yond. The "Constant," true to its name, throws 
up a pretty little white fountain so often that it 
seems to prepare for a new eruption almost be- 
fore the previous one has subsided. The " Minute 
Man " is always on duty and pops up his little 
spray of hot water, fifteen feet high, every min- 
ute or two. The " Monarch," near by, is much 

258 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

larger, but not at all pretty. It throws up a 
stream of black, muddy water seventy-five to one 
hundred feet high about every forty minutes. 

Some of these geysers are steady old fellows 
who have found their appointed task in life and 
have settled down to perform it with commend- 
able regularity. The Norris Basin, however, seems 
to be the favorite playground of the youngsters, 
— a frisky lot of geysers of no fixed habits and 
a playful disposition to burst out in unexpected 
places. Such is the New Crater, which asserted 
itself with a great commotion in 1891, bursting 
forth with the violence of an earthquake. An- 
other erratic young fellow is the " Fountain Gey- 
ser," in the Lower Basin. In July, 1899, he was 
seized with a fit of the " sulks " and for three 
months refused to play at all. In October he de- 
cided to resume operations and behaved quite 
well for ten years, when he suddenly took a 
notion to abandon his crater for the apartments 
of his neighbor next door. Apparently the fur- 
nishings of his new abode did not suit him, for 
he began at once to throw them out with great 
violence, hurling huge masses of rock with vol- 
canic force to a height of two hundred feet. 
Amid terrific rumblings and the hissing of escap- 
ing steam, this angry outburst continued for sev- 
eral days, and did not wholly cease for nearly 
two months. Since then the "Fountain" has 
settled down to the ordinary daily occupation of 
259 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

a self-respecting geyser. When I saw him he was 
as calm and serene as a summer's day, and to all 
appearances had never been guilty of mischief, 
nor even exhibited a ruffled temper in all his 
life. Indeed, had I not known his history (in- 
conceivable in one of the gentler sex), I should 
have personified this geyser in the feminine 
gender, because of his exquisite beauty. A great 
jewel seemed to be set into the surface of the 
earth. Its smooth upper face, about thirty feet 
in diameter, was level with the ground upon 
which we stood. Its color, at first glance, seemed 
to be a rich turquoise blue, but as we looked into 
the clear, transparent depths there seemed to be 
a hundred other shades of blue, all blending har- 
moniously. In the farthest corner, beneath a shelf 
or mound of geyserite, appeared the opening of 
a fathomless cave. All around its edges, and 
continuing in wavy lines of delicate tracery 
around the bottom of the bowl, were marvelous 
patterns of exquisite lacework, every angle seem- 
ing to catch and throw back its own particular 
ray of bluish light. There was not a ripple to 
disturb the surface, not a bubble to foretell the 
violent eruption which a few hours would bring 
forth, and only a thin film of vapor to suggest 
faintly the extraordinary character of this beau- 
tiful pool. 

Only a few hundred feet away is another cu- 
rious phenomenon in this region of surprises. It 

260 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

is a cauldron of boiling mud, measuring forty or 
fifty feet in diameter, known as the " Mammoth 
Paint Pots," where a mass of clay is kept in a 
state of continuous commotion. Millions of bub- 
bles rise to the surface and explode, spattering 
like a thick mess of porridge kept at the boiling 
point. The color is a creamy white where the 
ebullition is greatest, but thick masses thrown 
up around the edges and allowed to cool have 
assumed a delicate shade of pink. A smaller but 
more beautiful formation of the same kind is seen 
near the Thumb Station on the Yellowstone Lake. 
As we proceeded, Nature's jewels seemed to 
increase in number and magnificence. Turquoise 
Spring, a sheet of water one hundred feet wide, 
has all the beauty of the Fountain Geyser in the 
latter's quiet state, with an added reputation for 
tranquillity, for it is not a geyser at all. Near by 
is Prismatic Lake, about four hundred feet long 
and two hundred and fifty feet wide. Its center 
is a very deep blue, changing to green of varying 
shades, and finally, in the shallowest parts, to 
yellow, orange, and brown. It is a great spring 
from the center of which the water flows in deli- 
cate, wavy ringlets. The mineral deposits have 
formed countless scallops, like miniature terraces, 
a few inches high, sculpturing a wonderful pat- 
tern in hues of reds, purples, and browns, deli- 
cately imposed upon a background of gray. A 
thin veil of rising steam was carried away by the 

261 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

wind just enough to reveal the wonderful color- 
ings to our eyes, while the sun added to the be- 
wildering beauty of the spectacle by changing 
the vapor into a million prisms reflecting all the 
colors of the rainbow. 

In this connection I must not fail to mention 
the Morning-Glory Spring, where the action of 
a geyser has carved out a deep bowl, twenty feet 
in diameter. It would seem as though Nature had 
sunk a gigantic morning-glory into the earth, 
leaving its rim flush with the surface and yet re- 
taining, clearly visible beneath the smooth surface 
of the transparent water, all the delicate shades 
of the original flower. 

The Sapphire Spring, not far away, is another 
of the little gems of the region. It is a small, 
pulsating spring, and the jewel itself is not less 
remarkable than its extraordinary setting, resem- 
bling coral. The constant flow of the waters from 
a center to all directions has caused the forma- 
tion of a series of irregular concentric circles, 
broken into little knobs or mounds, from which 
the vicinity takes its name of the "Biscuit Basin." 

As we approached the Upper Geyser Region, 
the number and variety of these highly colored 
pools, hot springs, geysers, and strange forma- 
tions increased steadily, until at last we stood 
in the presence of "Old Faithful," the crown 
jewel of the collection, the Koh-i-noor of Nature's 
casket. 

262 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

A strong breeze from the north was blowing 
as I stood before the geyser for the first time, and 
for that reason, I decided to place my camera 
directly to the west. A small cloud of steam was 
rising, which seemed gradually to increase in 
volume. Then, as I watched, a small spray of 
water would shoot up occasionally above the rim 
of the crater. Then a puff of steam and another 
spray, breaking into globules as the wind carried 
it away. Then silence. Suddenly a large, full 
stream shot up a distance of twenty or thirty feet 
and fell back again, and the crater remained 
quiet for at least five minutes. Is that all? I 
thought. Does its boasted regularity only mean 
that while it plays once in sixty-five minutes, yet 
the height of some of the eruptions may be only 
trifling ? I began to feel doubtful, not to say dis- 
appointed. The column of steam seemed smaller, 
and I wondered if I should have to wait another 
hour for a real eruption, when suddenly the lazily 
drifting cloud became a giant, like the genie in 
the Arabian Nights. Up into the air shot a huge 
column of water, followed instantly by another 
still higher, then another, until in a moment or 
two there towered above the earth a gigantic col- 
umn of boiling water one hundred and fifty feet 
high. Straight as a flagstaff it seemed on the left, 
while to the right rolled the waving folds of a 
huge white banner, obscuring the blue of the 
sky in one great mass of snowy vapor. For sev- 
263 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

eral minutes the puffs of steam rolled up, and the 
fountain continued to play. Then, little by little, 
its form grew less, its force weakened, and at last 
there was only the little kzy pillar of vapor out- 
lined against the distant hills. 

Again and again during the day I watched it 
with an ever -increasing sense of fascination, 
which reached its climax in the evening, when the 
eruption was lighted by the powerful search-light 
on the hotel. As the great clouds of steam rolled 
up, the strong light seemed to impart a vast 
variety of colors, ranging from rich cream to 
yellow, orange, brown, and purple, blended har- 
moniously but ever changing like the rich silk 
robes of some Oriental potentate, — a spectacle 
of bewildering beauty, defying the power of pen 
to describe or brush to paint. 

There are other geysers greater than "Old 
Faithful." "The Giant" plays to a height of 
two hundred and fifty feet, and the " Grand " 
and " Beehive " nearly as high ; the " Grotto " 
has a more fantastic crater ; the " Castle " has 
the largest cone, and with its beautifully colored 
" Castle Well " is more unique ; and the " River- 
side," which plays a stream diagonally across the 
Firehole River, makes a more striking scenic dis- 
play. But all of these play at irregular intervals 
and with far less frequency, varying from a few 
hours to ten or twelve days between eruptions. 
On the other hand, the regularity with which 

264 




OLD FAITHFUL 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

" Old Faithful " sends his straight, magnificent 
column to the skies is fascinating beyond descrip- 
tion. Every sixty-five or seventy minutes, never 
varying more than five minutes, day and night, 
in all seasons and every kind of weather, " Old 
Faithful " has steadily performed his task since 
first discovered in 1870 until the present time, 
and no man can tell for how many centuries be- 
fore. 

" ! Fountain of the Wilderness ! Eternal Mystery ! 
Whence came thy wondrous power ? 
For ages, — long before the eye of Man 
Found access to thy charm, thou 'st played 
Thy stream of marvelous beauty. 
In midnight dark no less than glorious day, 
In wintry storms as well as summer's calm, 
Oblivious to the praise of men, 
Each hour to Heaven thou hast raised 
Thine offering pure, of dazzling white. 
Thy Maker's eye alone has seen 
The tribute of thy faithfulness, 
And thou hast been content to play thy part 
In Nature's solitude." 

Not alone as the guardian of Nature's jewels 
is the Yellowstone National Park remarkable. 
Even if the wonderful geysers, hot springs, and 
many-colored pools were taken away, — locked 
up in a strong box and hidden from sight as 
jewels often are, — the more familiar phases of 
natural scenery, such as mountains, rivers, lakes, 
and waterfalls would make it one of the wonder- 

265 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

places of America. On the eastern boundary is the 
great Absaroka Range, with peaks rising over 
10,000 feet. In the northwest corner is the Galla- 
tin Range, dominated by the Electric Peak, 11,155 
feet high, covered with snow, and so charged 
with electricity as to make the surveyor's transit 
almost useless. The Yellowstone and Gardiner 
Rivers, which join at the northern boundary, are 
separated within the park by a range of moun- 
tains of which the highest is Mount Washburne 
(10,350 feet), named for the leader of the expedi- 
tion of 1870. Farther south, and midway between 
the Upper Geyser Basin and the Yellowstone 
Lake, is the Continental Divide. The road passes 
between two small lakes, one of which discharges 
its waters into the Atlantic Ocean by way of the 
Yellowstone, the Missouri, and the Gulf of Mex- 
ico, while the other flows into the Pacific through 
Snake River and the Columbia. From a point a 
few miles to the east Lake Shoshone may be seen 
far below, and seeming to tower directly above 
it, but really fifty miles away, just beyond the 
southern boundary of the park, are the three 
sentinels of the Teton Range, the highest 13,741 
feet above the sea. The entire park is in the heart 
of the Rocky Mountains, its lowest level being 
over 6000 feet elevation. 

The park is full of lakes and streams varying 
in size from the hundreds of little pools and 
brooks, hidden away among the rocks, to the 

266 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

great Yellowstone Lake, twenty miles in width, 
and the picturesque river of the same name. 
Here and there are beautiful cascades which one 
would go miles to see anywhere else, but the 
surfeited travelers give them only a careless 
glance as the stages pass without stopping. The 
Kepler Cascades tumble over the rocks in a se- 
ries of falls of more than a hundred feet, making 
a charming veil of white lace, against a dark 
background of rocks and pines. The Gibbon 
Falls, eighty feet high, are nearly as attractive, 
while the little Rustic Falls, of sixty feet, in 
Golden Gate Canon, are really quite delightful. 
These, and many others, are passed in compara- 
tive indifference, for the traveler has already 
seen many wonderful sights and knows that 
greater ones are yet in store. His anticipations 
are realized with good measure running over, 
when at last he catches his first glimpse of the 
great Canon of the Yellowstone. 

With us this glimpse came at the Upper Falls, 
where the Yellowstone River suddenly drops 
one hundred and twelve feet, suggesting the 
American Fall at Niagara, though the volume of 
water is not so great. It is more beautiful, how- 
ever, because of the wildness of the scenery. 
Lower down, the river takes another drop, fall- 
ing to the very bottom of the canon. Here the 
cataract is more than twice the height of Niag- 
ara, and though lacking the width of the stream 
267 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

that makes the latter so impressive, is in every 
respect far more beautiful. 

One must stand near the edge of the rocks at 
Inspiration Point to grasp the full majesty of 
the scene. We are now three miles below the 
Great Falls. The Upper Fall, which at close 
range is a great, beautiful white sheet of water, 
rolling with imperial force over a rocky preci- 
pice, seems only a trifling detail in the vast pic- 
ture — a mere touch of dazzling white where all 
else is in color. At the bottom is the blue of the 
river, broken here and there into foamy white 
waves. Pines and mosses contribute touches of 
green. The rocky cliffs are yellow and gold, 
deepening into orange. In the distance a great 
rock of crimson stands like a fortress, with arched 
doorway, through which is seen a vista of green 
fields. But this is an optical illusion, as a strong 
glass will reveal. The doorway is only a pointed 
fir, which the distance has softened into the 
shadow of a pointed arch. Mediseval castles rear 
their buttressed fronts on inaccessible slopes. 
Cathedral spires, as majestic as those of Cologne, 
and numerous as the minarets of Milan, stand 
out in bold relief. Away down below is an eagle's 
nest, into which we can look and see the birds, 
yet it is perched upon a pinnacle so high that if 
one were to stand at the level of the river and 
look up, it would tower above him higher than 
the tallest building in the world. 

268 




o 



GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE 

Not a sign of the handiwork of man appears 
in any direction. The gorgeous spectacle, revel- 
ing in all the hues of the rainbow, is just as Na- 
ture made it — let the geologist say, if he can, 
how many thousands of years ago. And above all 
this splendid panorama, unequaled save by the 
glory of the sunset sky, is that same rich blue 
which Nature employs to add the final touch of 
loveliness to all her greatest works, and yet re- 
serves enough to beautify the more familiar 
scenes at home. 



X 

THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 



X 

THE GRAND CANON OF ARIZONA 

IARKIVED at the canon on a cold night in 
January, 1903, alone. There were few guests 
at the hotel, which was a capacious log cabin, 
with long, single-storied frame structures project- 
ing in various directions, to serve the purposes 
of sleeping-rooms and kitchens. It had a primi- 
tive look, far more in keeping with the solitude 
of its surroundings than the present comfortable 
hotel. An old guide (I hoped he might be John 
Hance) sat by the fire talking with a group of 
loungers, and I sauntered near enough to hear 
the conversation, expecting to listen to some 
good tale of the canon. But the talk was com- 
monplace. Presently an Indian came in accom- 
panied by a young squaw. He was said to be 
a hundred years old — a fact no doubt easily 
proved by the layers of dirt on his face and 
hands, if one could count them like the rings on 
a tree. He proved to be only a lazy old beggar 
and quite unromantic. The hotel management 
did not provide Indian dances and other forms 
of amusement then as now and I was obliged to 
spend a dull evening. I read the guidebooks and 
reached the conclusion that the canon was not 
273 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

worth visiting if one did not go " down the 
trail " to the bottom of it. So I inquired at the 
desk when the party would start in the morning, 
and was dismayed to be told that there would 
be none unless somebody wanted to go. I was 
told to put my name on the " list " and no doubt 
others would see it and we might " get up " a 
party. I therefore boldly signed my name at the 
top of a white sheet of paper, feeling much like 
a decoy, and awaited results. Again and again 
during the lonesome evening I sauntered over 
to the desk, but not one of the few guests had 
shown the slightest interest. At ten o'clock my 
autograph still headed an invisible list, as lonely 
as the man for whom it stood, and I went to 
bed, vowing to myself that if I could get only 
one companion, besides the guide, I would go 
down the trail. 

It was still dark when I heard the strident 
voice of a Japanese porter calling through the 
corridor, " Brek-foos ! Brek-foos " ! and I rose 
quickly. The dawn was just breaking as I stepped 
out into the chill air and walked to the edge of 
the great chasm. Before me rolled a sea of vapor. 
It was as though a massive curtain of clouds had 
been let down from the sky to protect the canon 
in the night. The spectacle was not to be exhib- 
ited until the proper hour arrived. The great 
white ocean stretched away to the north as far 
as the eye could reach, filling every nook and 

274 



THE GRAND CANON 

corner of the vast depression. In the east the 
rosy tints of the morning brightened the sky. 
Suddenly a ray of light illumined what appeared 
to be a rock, far out in the filmy ocean, and the 
black mass blazed with the ruddy hue. The tip 
of another great butte suddenly projected itself 
and caught another ray of light. One by one 
the rugged domes of the great rock temples of 
Brahma and Buddha and Zoroaster and Isis, as 
they are called, peeped into view as the mists 
gradually disappeared, catching the morning 
sunbeams at a thousand different angles, and 
throwing back a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, 
reds, and yellows, until at last the whole superb 
canon was revealed in a burst of color, over which 
the amethyst reigned supreme. 

How long I should have stood enraptured be- 
fore this scene of superlative grandeur, so mar- 
velously unfolded to the sight, I do not know, 
had not the more prosaic call of "Brek-foos!" 
long since forgotten, again resounded to bring 
me back to human levels. I returned to the hotel 
and entered the breakfast-room, with an appetite 
well sharpened by the crisp wintry air, first tak- 
ing a furtive glance at the " list," where my name 
still presided in solitary dignity. It was still early 
and I was seated at the head of a long table, 
where there were as yet only two or three other 
guests. I felt sure that the day would be a busy 
one, particularly if I should find that one com- 
275 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

panion with whom I was determined to attempt 
the trail. It would be well to lay in a good sup- 
ply of fuel, and accordingly I asked the waiter 
to get me a good beefsteak and a cup of coffee. 
He suggested griddle cakes in addition, as appro- 
priate for a cold morning, and I assented. Then 
suddenly remembering that country hotels have 
a way of serving microscopic portions in what 
a distinguished author has described as "bird 
bathtubs," I called over my shoulder to bring 
me some ham and eggs also. " George " disap- 
peared with a grin. When he returned, holding 
aloft a huge and well-loaded tray, that darky's 
face was a vision of delight. His eyes sparkled 
and his thick lips had expanded into an upturned 
crescent, wherein two rows of gleaming ivory 
stood in military array, every one determined to 
be seen. He laid before me a porter-house steak, 
large enough for my entire family, an immense 
elliptical piece of ham sliced from rim to rim off 
the thigh of a huge porker, three fried eggs, a 
small mountain of buckwheat cakes, and a pot 
of coffee, remarking, as he made room for the 
generous repast, " Ah reckon you-all 's powerful 
hungry dis mawnin', boss ! " 

By this time the table was well filled. There 
is no formality at such places and we were soon 
chatting together like old acquaintances. I re- 
solved to open up the subject of the trail and 
asked my neighbor at the right whether he in- 

276 



THE GRAND CANON 

tended to make the trip. He said " No," rather 
indifferently, I thought, and I expressed my sur- 
prise. I had read the guidebooks to good pur- 
pose and was soon expatiating on the wonders of 
the trail, declaring that I could not understand 
why people should come from all parts of the 
world to see the canon and miss the finest sight 
of all, the view from below. (Somebody said that 
in the guidebook.) They were all listening now. 
Some one asked if it was not dangerous. " Not 
in the least," I replied ; " no lives have ever been 
lost and there has never been an accident " (the 
guidebook said that, too) — "and, besides," I 
continued, knowingly, " it 's lots of fun." Just 
here a maiden lady of uncertain age, cadaverous 
cheeks, and a high, squeaky voice, piped out, — 
"I believe I '11 go." I remembered my vow about 
the one companion and suddenly felt a strange, 
sickly feeling of irresolution. But it was only 
for a moment. A little girl of twelve was tugging 
at her father's coat-tails — " Papa, can't I go ? " 
Papa conferred with Mamma, who agreed that 
Bessie might go if Papa went too. I was making 
progress. A masculine voice from the other end 
of the table then broke in with a few more ques- 
tions, and its owner, a man from Minnesota, whom 
we afterward called the " Major," was the next 
recruit. I had suddenly gained an unwonted 
influence. The guests were evidently inspired 
with a feeling of respect for a man who would 
277 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

order such a regal breakfast ! After the meal 
was over, a lady approached and prefacing her 
request with the flattering remark that I " looked 
respectable," said that her daughter, a young 
lady of twenty, was anxious to go down the trail j 
she would consent if I would agree to see that no 
harm befell her. I thought I might as well be a 
chaperon as a cicerone, since I had had no expe- 
rience as either, and promptly assured the mother 
of my willingness to accept the charge. It was a 
vain promise. The young lady was the first to 
mount her mule and fell into line behind the 
guide ; before I could secure my animal others 
had taken their plaees and I found myself three 
mules astern, with no possibility of passing to 
the front or of exchanging a word with my 
" charge." I fancied a slight gleam of mischiev- 
ous triumph in her eyes as she looked back, 
seeming to say, " I can take care of myself, quite 
well, thank you, Mr. Chaperon ! " After a slight 
delay, I secured my mule and taking the bridle 
firmly in hand said, " Get up, Sam." The animal 
deliberately turned his head and looked back at 
me with a sardonic smile in his mulish eye that 
said clearly — " You imagine that you are guid- 
ing me, don't you ? Just wait and see ! " 

There were seven of us, including the guide, 
as we started down the long and crooked path. 
The guide rode a white horse, but the rest of the 
party were mounted, like myself, on big, sturdy 

278 




THE TRAIL, GRAND CANON 



THE GRAND CANON 

mules — none of your little, lazy burros, as most 
people imagine. At first the trail seemed to de- 
scend at a frightful angle, and the path seemed 
— oh, so narrow ! I could put out my left hand 
against a perpendicular wall of rock and look 
down on the right into what seemed to be the 
bottomless pit. I noticed that the trail was cov- 
ered with snow and ice. Suppose any of the 
mules should slip ? Had we not embarked upon 
a foolhardy undertaking ? And if there should 
be an accident, all the blame would justly fall 
upon my head. How silly of me to be so anxious 
to go ! And how reckless to urge all these other 
poor innocents into such a trap ! 

Fortunately such notions lasted only a few 
minutes. The mules were sharp-shod and did not 
slip. They went down every day, nearly, and 
knew their business. They were born in the 
canon. They would have been terribly fright- 
ened in Broadway, but here they were at home 
and followed the familiar path with a firm tread. 
I threw the bridle over the pommel of the saddle 
and gave Sam my implicit trust. He knew a great 
deal more about the job than I did. From that 
moment I had no further thought of danger. 

I came to have a high respect for that mule. 
Most people respect a mule only because of the 
possibility that his hind legs may suddenly fly out 
at a tangent and hit something. I respected Sam 
because I knew his legs would do nothing of the 

279 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

kind. He needed all of them under him and 
he knew it. He never swerved a hair's breadth 
nearer the outer edge of the path than was ab- 
solutely necessary. The trail descends in a series 
of zigzag lines and sharp angles like the teeth of 
a saw. Sam would march straight down to one 
of these angles ; then, with the precipice yawn- 
ing thousands of feet below, he would slowly 
squirm around until his head was pointed down 
the next segment and then with great delibera- 
tion resume his journey. The guide thought him 
too deliberate and once came back to give me a 
small willow switch. I was riding on a narrow 
shelf of rock, less than a yard wide, where I 
could look down into a chasm thousands of feet 
deep. "That mule is too slow," he said; "you 
must whip him up." I took the switch and 
thanked him. But I would n't have used it then 
for a million dollars ! 

It was a glorious ride. The trail itself was the 
only sign of human handiwork. Everything else 
in sight was as Nature made it— a wild, un- 
touched ruggedness near at hand and a softer, 
gentler aspect in the distance, where the exposed 
strata of all the geologic ages caught the sun- 
shine at millions of angles, each reflecting its 
own particular hue and all blending together in 
a rich harmony of color ; where the bright blue 
sky and the fleecy clouds came down to join their 
earthly brethren in a revelry of rainbow tints-j 

280 



THE GRAND CANON 

and the sun overhead, despite the snow about the 
rim, was smiling his happiest summer benison 
upon the deep valley. 

We came, presently, to a place called Jacob's 
Ladder, where the path ceased to be an inclined 
plane and became a series of huge steps, each 
about as high as an ordinary table. Here we all 
dismounted, for the mules could not safely de- 
scend with such burdens. It was comical to watch 
them. My Sam would stand on each step for 
several minutes, gazing about as though enjoy- 
ing the scenery. Then, as if struck by a sudden 
notion, he would drop his fore legs to the next 
step, and with hind legs still at the higher ele- 
vation, pause in further contemplation. At length 
it would occur to this deliberate animal that his 
hind legs, after all, really belonged on the same 
level with the other two, and he would suddenly 
drop them down and again become rapt in 
thought. This performance was repeated on 
every step for the entire descent of more than 
one hundred feet. 

After traveling about three hours, during 
which we had descended three thousand feet be- 
low the rim, we came to Indian Garden, where 
an Indian family once found a fertile spot on 
which they could practice farming in their own 
crude way. Here we came to some tents belong- 
ing to a camping-party, and I found the solu- 
tion of a problem that had puzzled me earlier in 
281 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

the day. Standing on the rim and looking across 
the canon I had seen what appeared to be a 
newspaper lying on the grass. I knew it must 
be three or four miles from where I stood, and 
that a newspaper would be invisible at that dis- 
tance, yet I could not imagine how any natural 
object could appear white and rectangular so far 
away. Presently I saw some tiny objects moving 
slowly like a string of black ants, and realized 
that these must be some early trail party. We 
met them at Indian Garden. They proved to be 
prospectors and the "newspaper" was in reality 
the group of tents. 

We had now left the steep zigzag path, and 
riding straight forward over a great plateau, we 
came to the brink of some granite cliffs, where 
we could at last see the Colorado River, thun- 
dering through the gorge thirteen hundred. feet 
below. And what a river it is ! From the rim we 
could only catch an occasional glimpse, looking 
like a narrow silver ribbon, threading in and out 
among a multitude of strangely fashioned domes 
and turrets. Here we saw something of its true 
character, though still too far away to feel its 
real power — a boiling, turbulent, angry, and 
useless stream dashing wildly through a barren 
valley of rock and sand, its waters capable of 
generating millions of horse-power, but too in- 
accessible to be harnessed, and its surface vio- 
lently resisting the slightest attempt at naviga- 

282 



THE GRAND CANON 

tion ; a veritable anarchist of a river ! For more 
than a thousand miles it rushes through a deep 
canon toward the sea, falling forty-two hundred 
feet between its source and mouth and for five 
hundred miles of its course tumbling in a series 
of five hundred and twenty cataracts and rapids 
— an average of slightly more than one to every 
mile. 

Think of the courage of brave Major Powell 
and his men, who descended this terrible river for 
the first time, and you have a subject for contem- 
plation as sublime as the canon itself. In the 
spring of 1869, when John W. Powell started on 
his famous expedition, the Grand Canon was 
totally unknown. Hunters and prospectors had 
seen enough to bring back wonderful stories. 
Parties had ventured into the gorge in boats and 
had never been heard of again. The Indians 
warned him that the canon was sacred to the 
gods, who would consider any attempt to enter 
it an act of disobedience to their wishes and con- 
tempt for their authority, and vengeance would 
surely follow. The incessant roar of the waters 
told of many cataracts and it was currently re- 
ported that the river was lost underground for 
several hundred miles. Undaunted by these fear- 
ful tales, Major Powell, who had seen service in 
the Civil War, leaving an arm on the battlefield 
of Shiloh, determined, nevertheless, to descend 
the river. He had long been a student of botany, , 

283 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

zoology, and mineralogy and had devoted two 
years to a study of the geology of the region. 

With nine other men as his companions, he 
started from Green River City, Wyoming, on the 
24th of May, with one light boat of pine and 
three heavy ones built of oak. Nothing could be 
more modest than his report to the Government, 
yet it is an account of thrilling adventures and 
hair-breadth escapes, day by day, almost too mar- 
velous for belief. Yet there is not the slightest 
doubt of its authenticity in every detail. At times 
the swift current carried them along with the speed 
of an express train, the waves breaking and roll- 
ing over the boats, which, but for the water-tight 
compartments, must have been swamped at the 
outset. 

When a threatening roar gave warning of an- 
other cataract they would pull for the shore and 
prepare to make a portage. The boats were un- 
loaded and the stores of provisions, instruments, 
etc., carried down to some convenient point be- 
low the falls. Then the boats were let down, one 
by one. The bow line would be taken below and 
made fast. Then with five or six men holding 
back on the stern line with all their strength, 
the boat would be allowed to go down as far as 
they could hold it, when the line would be cast 
off, the boat would leap over the falls, and be 
caught by the lower rope. Again and again, day 
after day throughout the entire summer, this 

284 



THE GRAND CANON 

hard work was continued. In the early evenings 
and mornings Major Powell, with a companion 
or two, would climb to the top of the high cliffs, 
towering to a height of perhaps two thousand 
or three thousand feet above the river, to make 
his observations, frequently getting into danger- 
ous positions where a man with two arms would 
have difficulty in clinging to the rocks, and 
where any one but a man of iron nerve would 
have met instant death. 

Day by day they faced what seemed certain 
destruction, dashing through rapids, spinning 
about in whirlpools, capsizing in the breakers, 
and clinging to the upturned boats until rescued 
or thrown up on some rocky islet, breaking their 
oars, losing or spoiling their rations until they 
were nearly gone, and toiling incessantly every 
waking hour. One of the boats was completely 
wrecked before they had crossed the Arizona 
line, and one man, who barely escaped death in 
this accident, left the party on July 5, declaring 
that he had seen danger enough. The remaining 
eight, whether from loyalty to their chief or be- 
cause it seemed impossible to climb to the top 
of the chasm, continued to brave the perils of 
the river until August 27, when they had reached 
a point well below the mouth of the Bright Angel 
River. Here the danger seemed more appalling 
than at any previous time. Lateral streams had 
washed great boulders into the river, forming a 
285 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

dam over which the water fell eighteen or twenty 
feet; then appeared a rapid for two or three 
hundred yards on one side, the walls of the 
canon projecting sharply into the river on the 
other ; then a second fall so great that its height 
could not be determined, and beyond this more 
rapids, filled with huge rocks for one or two 
hundred yards, and at the bottom a great rock 
jutting halfway across the river, having a slop- 
ing side up which the tumbling waters dashed 
in huge breakers. After spending the afternoon 
clambering among the rocks to survey the river 
and coolly calculating his chances, the dauntless 
Powell announced his intention to proceed. But 
there were three men whose courage was not 
equal to this latest demand, and they firmly de- 
clined the risk. 

On the morning of the 28th, after a breakfast 
that seemed like a funeral, the three deserters — 
one can scarcely find the heart to blame them 
— climbed a crag to see their former comrades 
depart. One boat is left behind. The other two 
push out into the stream and in less than a min- 
ute have safely run the dangerous rapids, which 
seemed bad enough from above, but were in 
reality less difficult than many others previously 
experienced. A succession of rapids and falls are 
safely run, but after dinner they find themselves 
in another bad place. The river is tumbling 
down over the rocks in whirlpools and great 

286 



THE GRAND CANON 

waves and the angry waters are lashed into white 
foam. There is no possibility of a portage and 
both boats must go over the falls. Away they 
go, dashing and plunging, striking the rocks 
and rolling over and over until they reach the 
calmer waters below, when as if by miracle it is 
found that every man in the party is uninjured 
and both the boats are safe. By noon of the 
next day they have emerged from the Grand 
Canon into a valley where low mountains can 
be seen in the distance. The river flows in silent 
majesty, the sky is bright overhead, the birds 
pour forth the music of a joyous welcome, the 
toil and pain are over, the gloomy shadows have 
disappeared, and their joy is exquisite as they 
realize that the first passage of the long and ter- 
rible river has been safely accomplished and all 
are alive and well. 

But what of the three who left them ? If only 
they could have known that safety and joy were 
little more than a day ahead ! They successfully 
climbed the steep canon walls, only to encounter 
a band of Indians who were looking for cattle 
thieves or other plunderers. They could give no 
other account of their presence except to say they 
had come down the river. This, to the Indian 
mind, was so obviously an impossibility that the 
truth seemed an audacious lie and the three un- 
fortunate men were murdered. 

We were obliged to content ourselves with a 
287 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

view of the river from this height, though I had 
expected to descend to the river's edge and felt 
correspondingly disappointed. We had started 
too late for so long a trip and now it was time to 
turn back. Looking back at the solid and appar- 
ently perpendicular rock, nearly a mile high, it 
seemed impossible that any one could ascend to 
the top. It is only when one looks out from the 
bottom of this vast chasm at the huge walls on 
every side that he begins to realize its awf ulness. 
We are mere specks in the bottom of a gigantic 
mould wherein some great mountain range might 
have been cast. There are great mountains all 
about us and yet we are not on a mountain but in a 
vast hole. The surface of the earth is above us. A 
great gash has been cut into it, two hundred miles 
long, twelve to fifteen miles wide, and a mile deep, 
and we are in the depths of that frightful abyss 
with — to all appearance — no possible means of 
escape. Perpendicular cliffs of enormous height, 
which not even a mountain sheep could climb, hem 
us in on every side. The shadows are growing deep 
and it seems that the day must be nearly done. Yet 
we remount our mules and slowly retrace our 
steps over the steep ascent. It seems as though 
the strain would break the backs of the animals. 
As we approached the summit of the path some 
one remarked, " I should think these mules would 
be so tired they would be ready to drop." "Wait 
and see," said the guide. A few minutes later we 

288 



THE GRAND CANON 

reached the top and dismounted, feeling pretty 
stiff from the exertion. The mules were unsaddled 
and turned loose. Away they scampered like a 
lot of schoolboys at recess, kicking their heels 
high in the air and racing madly across the field. 
" I guess they 're not as tired as we are," said 
the Major, as he painfully tried to straighten 
up. Just then the little girl of twelve came up to 
me. " There is one thing," she said, " that has 
been puzzling me all day. How in the world did 
you find out so quickly that your mule's name was 
Sam?" "Name ain't Sam," interrupted the guide, 
bluntly. "Name's Teddy— Teddy Roosevelt." 

Some years ago I had occasion to attend a 
stereopticon lecture on the Grand Canon. The 
speaker was enthusiastic and his pictures excel- 
lent. But he fired off all his ammunition of ad- 
jectives with the first slide. For an hour and a 
half we sat listening to an endless repetition of 
"grand," "magnificent," "sublime," "awe-in- 
spiring," etc. As we walked home a young lad 
in our party, who was evidently studying rhet- 
oric in school, was heard to inquire, "Mother, 
would n't you call that an example of tautology? " 
I fear I should merit the same criticism if I were 
to undertake a description of the canon. Yet 
we may profitably stand, for a few moments, on 
Hopi Point, a promontory that projects far out 
from the rim, and try to measure it with our eyes. 

That great wall on the opposite side is just 
289 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

thirteen miles away. The strip of white at its 
upper edge, which in my photograph measures 
less than a quarter of an inch, is a stratum of 
limestone five hundred feet thick. Here and there 
we catch glimpses of the river. It is five miles 
away, and forty-six hundred feet — nearly a per- 
pendicular mile — below the level upon which we 
are standing. We look to the east and then to the 
west, but we see only a small part of the chasm. 
It melts away in the distance like a ship at sea. 
From end to end it is two hundred and seventeen 
miles. It is not one canon, but thousands. Every 
river that runs into the Colorado has cut out its 
own canon, and each of these has its countless 
tributaries. It has been estimated that if all the 
canons were placed end to end in a straight line 
they would stretch twenty thousand miles. 

If this mighty gash in the earth's surface were 
only a great valley with gently sloping sides and 
a level floor, it would still be impressive and in- 
spiring, though not so picturesque. But its floor 
is filled with a multitude of temples and castles 
and amphitheaters of stupendous size, all sculp- 
tured into strange shapes by the erosion of the 
waters. Any one of these, if it could be trans- 
ported to the level plains of the Middle West or 
set up on the Atlantic Coast, would be an object 
of wonder which hundreds of thousands would 
visit. Away off in the distance is the Temple of 
Shiva, towering seventy-six hundred and fifty 

290 




o 

''A 



THE GRAND CANON 

feet above the sea and fifty-two hundred and 
fourteen feet (nearly a mile) above the river. 
Take it to the White Mountains and set it down 
in the Crawford Notch. From its summit you 
would look down upon the old Tip-Top house of 
Mount Washington, eight hundred feet below. 
Much nearer, and a little to the right, is the 
" Pyramid of Cheops," a much smaller butte but 
rising fifty-three hundred and fifty feet above 
the sea-level. If the "Great Pyramid of Cheops" 
in Egypt were to be placed by its side it would 
scarcely be visible from where we stand, for it 
would be lost in the mass of rocky formations. 
Mr. G. Wharton James, who has spent many 
years of his life in the study of the canon, says 
that he gazed upon it from a certain point every 
year for twenty years and often daily for weeks 
at a time. He continues, " Such is the marvel- 
ousness of distance that never until two days ago 
did I discover that a giant detached mountain 
fully eight thousand feet high and with a base 
ten miles square . . . stood in the direct line of 
my sight, and as it were, immediately before me." 
He discovered it only because of a peculiarity of 
the light. It had always appeared as a part of 
the great north wall, though separated from it by 
a canon fully eight miles wide. 

How are we to realize these enormous depths ? 
Those isolated peaks and mountains, of which 
there are hundreds, are really only details in 
291 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

the vast stretch of the canon. Not one of them 
reaches above the level of the plain on the north 
side. Tourists who have traveled much are famil- 
iar with the great cathedrals of Europe. Let us 
drop a few of them into the canon. First, St. 
Peter's, the greatest cathedral in the world. "We 
lower it to the level of the river, and it disappears 
behind the granite cliff. Let the stately Duomo 
of Milan follow. Its beautiful minarets and mul- 
titude of statues are lost in the distance, and 
though we place it on the top of St. Peter's, it, too, 
is out of sight behind the cliffs. We must have 
something larger, so we place on top of Milan 
the great cathedral of Cologne, five hundred and 
one feet high, and the tips of its two great spires 
barely appear above the point from which we 
watched the swiftly rolling river. Now let us poise 
on the top of Cologne's spires, two great Gothic 
cathedrals of France, Notre Dame and Amiens, 
one above the other, then add St. Paul's of London, 
the three great towers of Lincoln, the triple spires 
of Lichfield, Canterbury with its great central 
tower, and the single spire, four hundred and 
four feet high, of Salisbury. We are still far from 
the top. These units of measurement are too 
small. Let us add the tallest office building in 
the world, seven hundred and fifty feet high, and 
then the Eiffel Tower, of nine hundred and 
eighty-six feet. We shall still need the Washing- 
ton Monument, and if my calculations are cor- 

292 



THE GRAND CANON 

rect, an extension ladder seventy-five feet long 
on top of that, to enable us to reach the top of 
the northern wall. One might amuse himself in- 
definitely with such comparisons. Perhaps they 
are futile, but it is only by some such method 
that one can form the faintest conception of the 
colossal dimensions of this, the greatest chasm 
in the world. 

Still more bewildering is the attempt to meas- 
ure the canon in periods of time. There were 
two great periods in its history — first, the pe- 
riod of upheaval, and second, that of erosion. 
When the geologic movement was in process 
which created the continent, with the Rocky 
Mountains for its backbone, this entire region 
became a plateau, vastly higher than at present, 
with its greatest elevation far to the north. Then 
the rivers began to carry the rains and snows to 
the sea, carving channels for themselves through 
the rocky surface. The steep decline caused the 
waters to flow with swiftness. The little stream- 
lets united to form larger ones, and these in 
turn joined their waters in still greater streams. 
The larger the stream and the swifter the flow, 
the faster the channel would be carved. The 
softer rocks gave slight resistance, but when the 
granite or harder formations were encountered, 
the streams would eddy and whirl about in search 
of new channels, the hard rocks forming a tem- 
porary dam. In this^ way the hundreds of buttes 
293 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

were formed. The Green River and the Grand 
unite to form the Colorado, the entire course of 
this great waterway stretching for two thousand 
miles. The two streams carry down a mighty 
flood — in former ages it was far mightier than 
now — which in its swift descent has ground the 
rocks into sand and silt and with resistless force 
carried them down to the sea. Those great buttes 
and strangely sculptured temples, each a formid- 
able mountain, were not thrown up by volcanic 
forces, but have been carved out of the solid 
earth by the erosion of the waters. That river 
five miles away, of which we see only glimpses 
here and there, was the tool with which the 
Great Sculptor carved all this wondrous chasm. 
Major Powell has calculated that the amount of 
rock thus ground to pieces and carried away 
would be equivalent to a mass two hundred thou- 
sand square miles in area and a full mile in thick- 
ness. Think of excavating a mile deep the entire 
territory of New England, New York, New Jer- 
sey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and West 
Virginia, and dumping it all into the Atlantic. 
Then think that this is the task the Colorado 
River and other geologic forces have accom- 
plished, and pause to wonder how long it took 
to complete the process ! If the Egyptian kings 
who built the pyramids had come here for mate- 
rial they would have seen the chasm substan- 
tially as we see it ! 

294 



THE GRAND CANON 

The geologic story of the canon's origin is too 
far beyond our comprehension. Let us turn to 
the Indian account. A great chief lost his wife 
and refused to be comforted. An Indian God, 
Ta-vwoats, came to him and offered to conduct 
him to a happier land where he might see her, 
if he would promise to cease mourning. Then 
Ta-vwoats made a trail through the mountains 
to the happy land and there the chief saw his 
wife. This trail was the canon of the Colorado. 
The deity made the chief promise that he would 
reveal the path to no man, lest all might wish to 
go at once to heaven, and in order to block the 
way still more effectually he rolled a mad surg- 
ing river through the gorges so swift and strong 
that it would destroy any one who dared attempt 
to enter heaven by that route. 

I have often been asked which is the greater 
wonder, the Grand Canon of the Colorado River 
or the Yellowstone National Park. The question 
is unanswerable. One might as well attempt to 
say whether the sea is more beautiful than the 
sky. If mere size is meant, the Grand Canon is 
vastly greater. If all the geysers of the Yellow- 
stone were placed down in the bottom of the 
Grand Canon at the level of th'e river, and all 
were to play at once, the effect would be unno- 
ticed from Hopi Point. The canon of the Yellow- 
stone River, impressive as it is, would be lost in 
one of the side canons of the Colorado. 
295 



THE LURE OF THE CAMERA 

The Grand Canon and the Yellowstone are 
creations of a totally different kind. 

The Yellowstone is a garden of wonders. The 
Grand Canon is a sublime spectacle. 

The Yellowstone is a variety of interesting 
units. The Grand Canon is a unit of infinite 
variety. 

The Yellowstone contains a collection of in- 
dividual marvels, each wondrous in structure and 
many of them exquisite in beauty. The Grand 
Canon is one vast masterpiece of unimagined 
architecture, limitless grandeur, and ever-chang- 
ing but splendidly harmonious brilliancy of color. 

The Yellowstone fills the mind with wonder 
and amazement at all the varied resources of 
Nature. The Grand Canon fills the soul with 
awe and reverence as one stands in silence upon 
the brink and humbly reflects upon the infinite 
power of God. 



THE END 



INDEX 



INDEX 



Alcott, A. Bronson, 192, 193. 
Alcott, Louisa M., 193. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 207-20. 
Amiel, Henri Frederic, 118; 124- 

27. 
Anderson, Mary, 110, 112, 113. 
Appledore, 222, 223, 232. 
Arbury Hall, 20-28. 
Abizona, The Grand Canon 

of, 271-96. 
Arnold, Thomas, 52, 98, 99. 
Arona, 156. 

Authari, the Long-haired, 164. 
Ayrshire, 46-48. 

Bashkirtseff, Marie, 132, 133. 
Bastien-Lepage, 133. 
Battlefield of Concord, 186, 187. 
Belgirate, l«55-56. 
Bellagio, 168. 

Borromeo, Carlo, 156, 161. 
Borromeo, Count Vitdfliano, 154. 
Bruce, Robert, 85, 90, 91. 
Burns, Robert A3-48. 
Burroughs, John, A Day with, 

233-50. 
Burroughs, John, 227, 228. 
Byron, Lord, 143, 144. 

Cadenabbia, 158, 159. 

Canon of the Yellowstone, the, 

267-69. 
Carlyle, Thomas, 41, 44, 66. 
Caroline, Queen, 168. 
Catskill Mountains, 237, 238, 

239, 242, 243, 246. 
Channing, Ellery, 186. 
Coleridge, Hartley, 62. 
Coleridge, Samuel T., 51, 61, 62. 



Colorado River, the, 282-88; 

293-95. 
Colvin, Sir Sidney, 19-21. 
Como, City of, 165, 168. 
Como, Lake, 95-98; 137; 138; 

150; 158T-68. 
Concord, Massachusetts, 179-95. 

Deffand, Marquise du, 140. 

De Quincey, Thomas, 52, 59. 63, 

64. 
Drummond, William, 77-84. 

Ecclefechan, 41-44. 

Eliot George,, 20-35. 

Ellastone, original of "Hay- 
slope," 31. 

Emerson, Lidian, 188, 190. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 17; 181- 
92; 249. 

Esk, Vale of the, 75-92. 

Esthwaite, Lake, 56. 

Evans, Rev. Frederick R., 28-29. 

Fields, James T., 199, 200. 

Gaeta vase, 170. 

Gallio, Cardinal, 168. 

Gould, Jay, 236, 237. 

Grand Canon of Arizona, the, 

271-96. 
Grant, Gen. U. S., 244. 
Grasmere, 59, 60, 61, 65. 66. 
Gravedona, palace of Cardinal 

Gallio, 168. 
Great Britain, Literary 

Rambles in, 15-48. 
Green, Thomas H., 117, 118, 122, 

123, 124, 127. 



299 



INDEX 



Haines, George, 170-74. 

Hawthorne, Elizabeth, 198, 199. 

Hawthorne, Madam, 198, 200. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel; in Con- 
cord, 179-95; in Salem, 196- 
206. 

Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody, 
180, 185; 198; 199. 

Hawthornden to Roslin Glen, 
From, 73-92. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 17. 

"House of the Seven Gables, 
The," 196, 202-06. 

II Medeghino, 160-63. 
Iron Crown of Lombardy, 165. 
Isles of Shoals, the, 222-32. 
Isola Bella, 152-55. 
Isola dei Pescatori, 155. 
Isola Madre, 155. 
Italian Lakes, A Tour of the, 
147-74. 

Jonson, Ben, 81-84. 

Lacus Larius. See Como. 
Lacus Verbanus. See Maggiore. 
"Lady Wentworth," scenes of, 

220, 221. 
Laighton, Oscar, 229. 
Lamb, William and Caroline, 

141-44. 
Lasswade, 75-76. 
Lecco, Lake, 95, 96. 
Lespinasse, Julie de, 139-41. 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 

17; 159; 220; 221. 
Lowell, James Russell, 17; 55; 

232. 
Lugano, Lake, 96, 151, 157, 159. 
Luino, 156, 157. 

Maggiore, Lake, 96, 149, 150, 

152-56, 159. 
Mammoth Hot Springs, 255-57. 



Medici, Gian Giacomo de (II 

Medeghino), 160-63. 
Melbourne, Lord, 141-44. 
Menaggio, 160. 
Minute-Man, the, Concord, 186, 

187. 
Monument, the, on battlefield of 

Concord, 186, 187. 
Musketaquid, river at Concord, 

185. 

New England, Literary Land- 
marks of, 175-232. 
Nuneaton, 20, 22, 29, 30. 
Nutter House, the, 207-16. 

Old Faithful, 254; 262-65. 
Old Manse, the, 179-86. 
Oxford, 99-100. 

Passmore Edwards Settlement, 
London, 103-09, 127. 

Pattison, Mark, 100; 117-21; 
126, 127. 

Peabody, Elizabeth Palmer, 198. 

Peabody, Mary (Mrs. Horace 
Mann), 198. 

Peabody, Dr. Nathaniel, 197. 

Peabody, Sophia. See Haw- 
thorne, Sophia Peabody. 

Pliny, the Elder, 160, 166. 

Pliny, the Younger, 166, 167. 

Pogliaghi, Lombard decorator, 
170, 171. 

Portsmouth, N.H., 207-21. 

Powell, Major John W., 283- 
87. 

Ripley, Rev. Ezra, 182. 
Ripley, Rev. Samuel, 182. 
"Robert Elsmere," 102, 109, 

110-27. 
Roslin Castle, 86-88. 
Roslin Chapel, 88, 90. 
Roslin Glen, 75-92. 



300 



INDEX 



St. Clair family, of Roslin, 87, 88, 
91, 92. 

Salem, Massachusetts, 196-206. 

Salpion, Greek sculptor, 170. 

"Scarlet Letter, The," 201-02. 

Scott, Sir Walter, 37, 38, 39, 45, 
46, 75, 76, 89, 90, 239. 

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Con- 
cord, 187-89. 

Southey, Robert, 51. 

Thaxter, Celia, 221, 223-32. 
Theodelinda, Queen of the Lom- 
bards, 163-65. 
Thoreau, Henry D., 182-91; 228. 
Tower of London, 18. 
Tremezzo, 168. 

Varenna, 163. 

Victoria Monument, London, 40. 

Villa Bonaventura, 169. 

Villa Carlotta, 168, 169. 

Villa d' Este, 168. 

Villa Maria, 169-74. 

Villa Pliniana, 167, 168. 

Walden Pond, 191. 
Waed, Mrs. Humphry, The 
Country op, 93-146. 



Ward, Mrs. Humphry, scenes of 

novels, 86, 37, 111-17; 128- 

31; 134-38; 145; 169. 
Washburn, Gen. Henry D., 253. 
Wayside, the, Hawthorne's house 

in Concord, 193, 194. 
Wentworth House, 220-21. 
Westmoreland, 51-72; 98; 131; 

134; 135; 136; 239; 241. 
White, Gilbert, 228. 
Wilson, John (Christopher 

North), 52. 
Windermere, Lake, 54; 68; 70; 

98. 
Windermere village, 51. 
Wordsworth's Country, A 

Day in, 49-72. 
Wordsworth, Dorothy, 41, 63, 

64, 65. 
Wordsworth, Mrs., 63. 
Wordsworth, William, 41; 51-72; 

98; 158; 239-43. 

Yellowstone, Glimpses oe> 

the, 251-69. 
Yellowstone Lake, the, 261; 267. 
Yellowstone National Park, the, 

295, 296. 
Yellowstone River, the, 267, 268. 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 




* , 



